Peabody  Library, 

DANVERS. 

ABBREVIATED  REGULATIONS. 

One  volume  can  be  taken  at  a  time. 

Borrowers  must  see  that  no  numbers  are  on  the 
Cards  except  such  as  are  wanted,  and  thosii  perfectly 
legible. 

Books  can  be  kept  out  two  weeks,  unless  a  shorter 
time  is  expressed  on  the  cover. 

No  book  can  again  be  taken  out  by  the  same  bor 
rower  or  member  of  his  household,  until  the  next  library 
day  after  its  return. 

Transfer  from  one  card  to  another,  will  not  be 
allowed. 

Fine  for  a  book  kept  over  the  time,  five  cents  for 
each  half  week,  if  kept  two  weeks  over  the  time,  it  will 
be  sent  for  at  the  expense  of  the  borrower. 

No  book  delivered  to  a  person  owing  a  fine. 

Talking  .".loud  and  a:T.  unnecessary  noise  in  the 
Library  Room  ;  prohibited. 

AiwiixK  present  the  card  when  returning  a  book. 

THK  PUBLIC  STATUTES,  CHAP.  203,  SEC.  79, 

PROVIDE  THAT; 

Whoever  willfully  and  maliciously  or  wantonly  and 
Without  cause  writes  upon,  injures,  defaces,  tears  or  de 
stroys  a  book,  plate,  picture,  engraving,  or  statue  belong 
ing  to  a  law,  town,  city  or  other  public  library,  shall  be 
punished  by  a  fine  of  nol  less  than  five  or  more  than 
fifty  dollars,  or  by  imprisonment  in  Ihe  jail  not  exceed 
ing  six  months. 


THE 


J 


L. 


TKIANGttLAK 

I      V\  V\ 

/SOCIETY" 


p^o]vr  fjiE  LIFE  op 


PORTLAND 

HOYT,   FOGG  &  DONHAM 
1886 


COPYRIGHTED  BY 

HOYT,  FOGG  &  DONHAM, 

1885. 


B.  THURSTON  &  Co., 
Printers  and  Stereofypers, 

PORTLAND,  ME. 


f? 


Al- 

-n 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     THE  CAT.  .  .  •  -5 

II.     ANOTHER  POEM.         .  •  17 

The  Extinguisher.     The  Adjective. 

III.  AN  UNCONFESSED  POET. 

Acorn  Planting. 

IV.  A  SNOW-STORM. 

Snowed  In.     Shovelling  Snow.     Song  of 

the  Season.  * 

V.     ACCEPTING  A  SITUATION.  .     43 

VI.     THE  MOUSE  TRAP.    . 

VII.     A  CHRISTMAS  PRESENT.  .  .     57 

VIII.     THE  FIRST  TRIANGULAR.       .  .  70 

The  Derwent  Ducks.  The  Cockroach. 
How  Strange  it  will  be.  Ishmael 
Day.  A  Caged  Lion.  The  Last 
Voyage. 

IX.     TYPOGRAPHICAL  ERRORS.  .     95 

X.     THE  SECOND  TRIANGULAR.  103 

A  Dear  Lonesome  Day.     Winter  Time. 
Old-Fash ioned  Flowers.     Grandmoth 
er's  Garden.     Old  Roses.     Bed  Time. 
XL     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  HAPPY.      .  .  120 

XII.     THE  THIRD  TRIANGULAR.     .  .         135 

Eyes.  Afterward.  Poetical  Patchwork. 
To  the  Moon.  Dr.  McGee. 

XIII.  PARSON  SMITH'S  BIB.     .  .  .144 

A  Pewter  Tankard. 

XIV.  THE  DOOR-MAT  MAN.  .  .151 

The  Blind  Man's  Wife. 

XV.     THE  FOURTH  TRIANGULAR.        .  .156 

A  Cavalry  Private.  A  Hero  in  a  Good 
Cause.  What  is  it?  Little  Lone 
some.  Knitting  Work.  A  Modern 
Minstrel. 

3 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAQE 

XVI.     A  RAINY  DAY.       .  .  .179 

A  Wet  Week.     A  December  Night. 
XVII.     LOOKING  OVER  THE  WALL.    .  .185 

Fessenden's  Garden. 

XVIII.     JOHN,  THE  FLY.      .  .  .         189 

XIX.     THE  FIFTH  TRIANGULAR.        .  ..198 

Little  Friends.  The  Baby's  Smile.  A 
Country  School-House.  The  Sun 
shine  Song.  A  Moonlight  Excur 
sion.  To  Casco  Bay. 

XX.     THE  MINCE  PIE.     .  .  .213 

XXI.     THE  TRAMP.      .  .  .  .225 

XXII.     THE  SIXTH  TRIANGULAR.  .         231 

A  Rebus.  Haunted  Houses.  Wounded. 
A  Demolished  Homestead.  Her  An 
swer.  He  came  Too  Late.  Solemn 
New  England. 

XXIII.  NEVER  WRITE  VERSES.          .  .  254 

Writing  to  Order. 

XXIV.  BROKEN  BONES.      .  .  .         268 

The  Fact  and  the  Report. 

XXV.     THE  SEVENTH  TRIANGULAR.  .  .  274 

Munjoy  Hill.  The  Colorado  Potato 
Bug.  Afterglow.  Madge  Miller. 
To-morrow. 

XXVI.     TROUBLE  WITH  TYPE.        .  „         292 

XXVII.     IN  THE  GARDEN.          .  c  .  307 

Morning  Glories. 

XXVIII.     THE  MALIGNED  COMPOSITOR.        .         319 
XXIX.     THE  EIGHTH  TRIANGULAR.      .  .  328 

Lizzie.    Bertie.    Gracie  with  the  Gold 
en  Hair.     Ned.     Winnie. 
XXX.     CREEPING  THINGS.  .  .         340 

The  Span-worm.     The  Caterpillar. 
XXXI.     ENVY  AND  AMBITION.  .  .  347 

XXXII.     A  PLUMBERS'  RECEPTION.  .         350 

A  Familiar  Acquaintance. 

XXXIII.  COLE  us.  .  358 

XXXIV.  A  FAITHFUL  FRIEND.  364 

Toby. 
A  PERIOD.         ,  „  .  381 


THE  TRIANGULAR  SOCIETY, 


I. 

THE   CAT. 

THE  family  had  a  cat.  Not  that  this  is  any  special 
distinction  —  almost  every  family  has  a  cat.  To  some 
families  cats  are  born,  some  achieve  cats,  and  some 
have  cats  thrust  upon  them.  Among  the  latter  may 
be  reckoned  the  amiable  household  of  which  these 
pages  are  a  fragmentary  and  imperfect  record,  or, 
more  correctly,  a  string  of  sketches,  making  small 
claim  to  chronological  order,  or  consecutiveness  of 
dates  or  doings.  Their  cat,  alas,  came  to  them,  as, 
indeed,  one  time  and  another,  did  many  a  friendless 
and  desperate  animal  of  the  genus.  Households 
made  up  principally  of  tender-hearted  women  and 
children,  households  wherein  the  masculine  element  is 
either  unusually  amiable,  or  altogether  absent,  are 
generally  besieged  by  tramps  of  all  descriptions, 
human  and  feline. 

And  here  arises  a  question — where  do  all  the 
vagrant,  homeless  cats  come  from?  Almost  every 
body  drowns  the  superfluous  kittens  which  an  inscru- 

5 


THE    TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 

table  fate  from  time  to  time  adds  to  the  family  circle ; 
almost  every  bad  boy  stones  and  kills  every  cat  he 
sees;  all  the  waste  places  and  open  cellars  which 
mark  the  sites  where  houses  have  been  burned,  are 
half  full  of  dead  cats  in  various  pathetic  attitudes  ; 
and  it  remains  a  marvel  to  every  reflecting  mind, 
whence  come  the  cats,  all  more  or  less  scampish-look 
ing,  gaunt,  and  disreputable,  which  are  always  sneaking 
and  snooping  around  back  doors,  sitting  melancholy, 
dingy,  and  hungry,  on  roofs  and  fences,  or  giving 
songs  in  the  night  to  an  audience  of  sleepy  and 
ungrateful  dead-heads  ? 

To  tliis  innumerable  company  of  unpaid  musicians, 
originally  belonged  the  cat  which  in  the  fullness  of 
time  invaded  this  previously  happy  household.  No 
body  ever  quite  knew  how  the  cat  got  imbedded  in 
the  family.  Once  or  twice  she  had  been  seen  sitting 
forlorn  on  the  doorstep,  with  her  hands  in  her  muff, 
looking  up  at  the  windows,  with  an  injured  expression 
of  countenance,  (which,  being  remarked  upon,  was  at 
once  accounted  for  by  Bobby,  the  terrible  infant  of 
the  family,  who  suggested  that  it  had  been  injured  in 
a  %ht,)  and  when  the  door  was  opened,  suddenly 
darting  away,  and  pretending  she  had  been  kicked. 
The  next  anybody  knew,  she  was  installed  in  the 
cosiest  corner  of  the  sitting-room  lounge,  and  declared 
by  Bobby,  who  at  once  assumed  proprietorship,  to  be 
uncommonly  particular  about  her  eating. 

After  some  faint  opposition,  Bob  and  the  cat  carried 
the  day.  Peremptory  orders  were  issued,  however, 


THE   CAT. 


that  if  the  cat  was  to  be  a  member  of  the  household, 
she  must  forthwith  wash  the  dust  of  travel  from  her 
sooty  and  begrimed  person,  and  conduct  herself  like  a 
respectable   family   cat.     She    must    conform   to   the 
wholesome  rules  and   steady  habits  of  the  establish 
ment  ;  she  must  confine  herself  to  three  regular  meals 
a  day;  must   content  herself  with  the   range   of  the 
house  and  wood-shed,  give  up  scrambling  over  fences 
and  ridge-poles   with   vagrant  companions,  and   sleep 
regularly  in  a  barrel,  on  some  soft  straw,  covered  with 
a  piece  of   carpet.      No  more    open-air  concerts,  no 
more  vagabondish  associates.       To    these    conditions 
the  cat  agreed.     But  how  did  she  keep  her  promises? 
Nobody  was  mercenary  enough  at  the   time,  to  try 
to  drive  a  sharp  bargain  with  the  cringing,  half-starved 
creature,  and  so  nobody  suggested  as  a  condition  of  her 
adoption,  that  she  should  rout  the  innumerable  com 
pany  of  mice   which  held  nightly  dancing-schools   in 
the  walls    and    ceiling  of    the    antiquated    dwelling. 
And  it  was  just  as  well  that  this  was  not  mentioned, 
since  nobody  ever  had  any  reason  to  suppose  that  the 
cat  would  have  known  a  mouse  had  she  met  it,  unless 
somebody  had  been   by  to  perform  the  ceremony  of 
introduction.     As  for  cleanliness,  she  so  seldom  washed 
her  face  or  hands,  that  when,  at  long  intervals,  she  set 
awkwardly  about  it,  the   whole  household   was  sum 
moned  to  witness  the  operation,  which,  from  its  unus- 
ualness,  always  gave  her   a  cokl  i  i  her  head,  so  that 
she  went  about  sneezing,  all  the  next  day  or  two. 
Up  to  the  time  when  the  cat  was  added,  it  had  been 


8  THE  TBIANGULAK   SOCIETY. 

a  united  and  comfortable  family,  the  mother,  and  Bru 
nette  and  Bob;  all  with  ideas  of  their  own,  to  be 
sure,  and  all  inclined  to  think  her  or  his  own  idea  the 
very  one  to  be  acted  on  in  any  present  case.  But  on 
the  whole,  they  agreed  pretty  well,  and  had  rather  a 
pleasant  life  of  it  —  until  the  cat  came. 

Alas  the  day !  It  was  found  out  before  long  that 
they  had  all  along  been  happier  than  they  knew.  It 
had  been  possible  to  go  down  stairs  without  being 
tripped  up  by  a  cat's  tail ;  to  leave  the  doors  open  a 
moment  without  afterward  finding  a  coal-smutted  quad 
ruped  asleep  on  the  clean  white  pillows,  or  everything 
in  the  pantry  dragged  off  the  plates  and  mussed 
around  the  floor ;  to  leave  the  dinner-table  for  a 
moment  unguarded,  without  risk  of  loss,  or  a  gravy- 
deluged  table-cloth.  But  after  the  cat  came,  all  this 
was  changed.  Nobody  ever  went  down  stairs  again 
without  a  stumble  and  a  wrestle,  a  spasmodic  grasp 
ing  at  the  balusters  and  much  disjointed  exclamation, 
which,  though  it  certainly  was  not  swearing,  surely 
had  some  most  blasphemous  inflections.  Xobody  ever 
left  a  door  open  after  that,  without  at  once  discover 
ing  that  cat  either  in  the  milk-pitcher,  the  butter-plate, 
the  water-pail,  or  the  best  bed  ;  nobody  ever  went  out 
without  letting  her  in,  or  in,  without  letting  her  out. 
Every  garment,  cushion,  chair,  and  lounge  in  the  house 
was  furred  with  cat's  hairs.  Somebody  was  always 
washing  up  grease-spots,  or  sweeping  up  crumbs,  or 
opening  doors,  or  scolding  or  fretting,  or  getting  ur^ 
too  early,  or  going  to  bed  too  late,  because  of 


THE   CAT. 


9 


cat.     She  was  always  getting  under  chair-rockers,  or 
somebody's  feet,  or  the  treadle  of  the  sewing-machine  ; 
even  the   stove-oven    door   must  be   studiously  kept 
shut,    to   prevent    her    from    going    in    and    baking 
herself  to  death.     She   was  always  hungrily  besieging 
the    pantry,    or  thirstily   apostrophizing    the  pump ; 
always  missing  when  she  was  wanted,  and   on  hand 
when   she    was    not.      She   was    pretty    sure    to   be 
in  the  sitting-room  if  a  caller  was   announced ;  and 
she  would  frequently  astonish  an  unsuspecting   party 
by   getting   under   the    open-work   bamboo    chair   in 
which  he  was  sitting,  and  clawing  at  the  seat  with  all 
her  might,  under  pretence  of  sharpening  her  claws, — 
a  process  never  altogether  agreeable  to  the  sitter,  who 
generally  betrayed    her  by  bouncing  from   the    chair 
and  choosing  one  with  a  more  solid  basis.     If  she  was 
busy  with  worse  mischief  in  the  kitchen,  so   as  to  be 
quite  unable  to  meet  visitors  in  the  parlor,  they  were 
often  reminded  of  her  by  the  sight  of  a  chicken-bone 
on  the  key-board  of  the  piano,  or   a  cold  buckwheat- 
cake  on  the  sofa-cushion. 

While  she  was  a  pilgrim  and  a  stranger  outside  the 
house,  she  was  dying  to  get  in ;  as  soon  as  she  was 
established  inside,  she  was  perishing  to  get  out.  Every 
departing  visitor  who  found  her  meekly  waiting  at  the 
street-door,  called  her  "  poor  pussy,"  and  obligingly  let 
her  out ;  and  then  Bobby  cried,  and  dug  his  knuckles 
into  his  eyes  —  he  was  younger  then  than  afterward  — 
and  rubbed  his  nose  to  a  fine  polish  until  the  truant 
was  reclaimed.  This  task  was  only  accomplished  by 


10 


THE   TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 


some  one  standing  at  the  open  door,  and,  with  a 
vacant  and  preoccupied  air,  scraping  away  for  dear 
life  with  a  knife  in  a  tin  pan.  The  cat  was  not  hun 
gry  ;  but  reversion,  natural  selection,  or  the  survival 
of  the  fittest,  led  her  to  swarm  toward  the  sound  of 
scraping ;  and  by  the  time  everybody's  teeth  were  well 
on  edge,  she  would  come  bounding  in,  like  a  belated 
fireman  at  a  conflagration.  It  is  needless  to  say  that 
all  the  tin  ware  in  the  house  was  before  long  scraped 
down  to  hard  pan. 

That  cat  became  the  bane  of  the  family,  the  staple 
of  discontented  converse.  Even  the  mother,  who 
dotes  on  dumb  things,  and  deifies  Mr.  Bergh,  was 
often  heard  to  say,  after  some  season  of  unusual  trial, 
"  I  declare,  I  wish  there  were  some  instantaneous  and 
merciful  way  of  killing  a  cat.  If  I  hire  a  boy  to  kill 
her,  he  will  torture  her ;  if  I  turn  her  away,  she  will 
be  abused  and  starved ;  if  I  keep  her,  she  will  wear 
the  life  out  of  me.  She  is  a  perfect  elephant !  "  This 
last  position  was  strenuously  .combated  by  Bobby,  who 
intimated  that  she  had  no  trunk  ;  but  he  was  promptly 
snubbed  by  Brunette,  who  remarked,  "  I  wish  she  had 
a  trunk,  I  'd  put  her  into  it  and  send  her  off  by 
express  this  afternoon,  with  C.  O.  D.  on  the  cover, 
meaning  Carry  her  Off  and  Drown  her."  Only  Bob 
remained  her  friend;  chiefly,  no  doubt,  because  he 
never  had  any  work  to  do  for  her. 

Of  course  it  would  be  impossible  to  set  down  all  the 
tantrums  of  that  cat,  or  to  rehearse  the  worries, 
troubles,  and  vexations  which  she  brought  into  the 


I 
THE   CAT.  11 


family.     A  specimen  prank  of  hers  will  give  a  taste  of 
her  quality. 

The  house,  as  previously  intimated,  is  running  over 
with  mice,  or  would  run  over,  were  it  not  perforated 
with  mouse-holes,  to  let  out  the  surplus.  By  dint-  of 
stopping  these  holes  with  obstructions  saturated  with 
a  solution  of  cayenne  pepper,  a  small  percentage  of 
the  little  devourers  is  kept  out  of  the  rooms  ;  but 
the  jigs  they  dance  in  the  wall  are  wonderful  to  hear. 
One  Sunday  they  were  unusually  lively,  and  Bobby 
was  much  excited  by  their  uncommon  scuffling  and 
squeaking.  The  idea  at  once  occurred  to  him,  that  it 
would  be  well  to  introduce  the  cat  to  the  attic,  which 
is  supposed  to  be  mouse  headquarters.  So  the  cat 
was  tenderly  carried  up  and  deposited  in  the  little 
prism-shaped  cuddy  under  the  eaves,  informed  that 
she  might  have  all  the  mice  she  could  catch,  and  left 
to  her  pursuits. 

Half  an  hour  later,  a  fearful  commotion  was  heard 
in  the  sitting-room  wall,  a  scratching,  scrabbling,  rat 
tling,  tearing  racket,  as  though  there  were  a  fight  of 
wild  beasts  going  on  behind  the  wall-paper,  the  whole 
accompanied  by  a  most  blood-curdling  y owing  and 
spitting.  The  unhappy  three  read  in  each  other's 
faces  the  dreadful  fact  —  that  cat  had  fallen  down 
between  the  laths  and  the  boarding! 

Of  course  there  was  a  family  consultation,  which 
immediately  adjourned  to  the  attic.  The  closet  door 
was  opened,  disclosing  to  the  garish  light  of  day  a  lot 
of  rubbish  left  by  the  last  tenant  —  (why  don't  people 


12  THE   TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 

clear  out  their  trash  when  they  move  ? )  an  old  cur 
tain,  a  broken  goblet,  a  mouldy  boot,  a  debilitated  hoop- 
skirt, —  a  veritable  skeleton  in  a  closet,  —  a  fragment 
of  a  pitcher,  one  leg  of  a  pair  of  trousers,  an  old 
chair  bottom,  and  some  empty  bottles,  the  whole 
"rounded  and  finished  "  with  the  cobwebs  and  dust 
of  years,  —  but  no  cat.  Instead,  a  prolonged  howl, 
ending  in  a  spasmodic  scratching  that  threatened  to 
rip  off  the  clapboards,  came  dismally  up  from  the 
eaves,  where  a  narrow  crevice  at  the  ends  of  the  floor 
boards  showed  the  only  place  where  the  cat  could 
have  descended.  To  this  day,  nobody  understands 
how  she  could  have  squeezed  herself  down  there. 

"Fuff!  fuff !  pint!  phit!  mow!  mow!  m-a-e-i-o-u-ow ! " 
came  up  through  the  crack,  as  though  a  dozen  cats 
were  swearing  on  a  wager.  Whereupon  every  listener 
begun  calling  "Kitty,  kitty!"  in  every  tone  of 
entreaty,  endearment,  and  absolute  wheedling.  But 
all  in  vain.  Bob  ran  for  the  persuasive  pan,  and 
scraped  like  mad,  but  nothing  came  of  it.  When  he 
ceased,  an  ominous  silence  reigned.  "  She  's  stifled  !  " 
screamed  Bobby,  "  she  's  just  suffocated  down  in  that 
horrid  hole  !  I'  wish  you  M  never  told  me  to  put  her  up 
here !  "  added  he,  quite  forgetting  that  it  had  been 
his  own  proposal. 

Presently  two  pale  yellow  phosphorescent  spots 
appeared  in  the  black  crack,  accompanied  by  a  plain 
tive  "  M-a-e-i-o-w !  "  It  was  that  cat.  She  put  her 
nose  against  the  crack  to  show  that  she  couldn't  get 
her  head  through;  she  pushed  her  paw  up  to  show 


THE   CAT.  18 

that  she  couldn't  get  her  body  through ;  she  evinced, 
or  pretended,  the  most  frantic  eagerness  to  get  out,  — 
but  all  in  vain. 

"  Fetch  me  a  lamp,  and  the  axe,"  said  the  worried 
mother,  in  desperation ;  "  perhaps,  if  I  can  see,  I  may  be 
able  to  pry  up  a  board  and  let  her  out."  The  lamp 
and  axe  were  brought,  and  the  edge  of  the  latter 
was  inserted  between  the  boards.  Then  the  combined 
family  sat  on  the  handle  for  a  purchase,  until  a  groan 
from^the  axe  warned  them  that  the  handle  might  give 
way,  when  they  dismounted.  But  the  board  being 
firmly  fastened  at  the  ends,  simply  bowed  up  a  little 
in  the  middle,  not  enough  to  let  a  mouse  through,  and 
defied  all  the  mother's  strength,  who  was  meanwhile 
burning  off  her  eyelashes  over  the  lamp  chimney,  and 
getting  her  hair  tangled  in  the  shingle  nails  of  the 
roof.  Brunette  afterward  declared  that  even  in  this 
sore  strait,  the  mother  only  said  under  her  breath, 
"What  would  Mr.  Bergli  say?" 

But  Brunette  made  no  jocose  remarks  at  present. 
"  What  shall  we  do  ?  "  she  wailed.  "  When  I  was  in 
New  York,  I  knew  a  cat  that  got  down  in  the  wall 
that  way  and  died  there;  and  the  family  had  to  move 
away  because " 

"  Dear,  dear,"  groaned  the  mother.  "  What  could 
we  do  ?  "  and  she  struggled  wildly  at  the  board,  skin 
ning  her  fingers  and  turning  back  her  nails  recklessly. 
*'  Get  me  a  wedge-shaped  piece  of  kindling-wood,"  she 
said,  "  perhaps  I  can  drive  it  in  and  raise  the  board  a 
little  more." 


14  THE   TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 

"  The  poor  thing  starved  to  death  by  inches,"  con 
tinued  the  dismal  narrator  of  New  York  experience, 
"and  it  was  dreadful  to  hear  her  mewing  growing 
weaker  and  weak " 

"  For  mercy's  sake,"  groaned  the  poor  mother,  to 
whom  every  word  was  a  fresh  goad,  "  do  hold  this 
wedge  while  I  drive  it.  This  wretched  little  hole  of 
a  closet  isn't  big  enough  for  one  to  get  into,  even  on 
one's  knees  !  If  I  could  only  get  to  the  other  edge  of 
the  board,  so  the  axe-handle  wouldn't  hit  the  door- 
casing  every  time  I  pound,  I  believe  I  could  manage 
it." 

"  Let  me  come,"  said  Brunette,  insanely  anxious, 
"I  'm  larger  than  you  are,  perhaps  I  can  get  in." 

The  poor  mother,  too  much  exhausted  to  rebuke 
this  folly  by  anything  more  than  a  reproachful  glance, 
paused  a  moment  and  wiped  her  wet  forehead  with  an 
extremely  dirty  hand,  which  left  three  black  streaks 
across  her  face  diagonally ;  she  was  quite  unmindful 
that  the  drops  which  anguish  and  fatigue  had  called 
out  on  her  forehead,  had  entirely  ruined  her  inchoate 
crimps.  Finally,  after  everybody  was  covered  with 
dust,  cobwebs,  scratches  and  splinters,  the  wedge  was 
driven,  giving  about  two  inches  and  a  half  of  space 
for  the  cat's  egress. 

"The    creature  never   can   flatten  herself  through 

o 

that,"  sighed  the  poor  woman,  absently  withdrawing 
a  hair-pin  which  had  been  driven  too  far  into  her 
head  by  contact  with  the  sloping  roof,  "  I  know  she 
can't." 


THE  CAT.  15 

"I  guess  she  can,"  chirped  hopeful  Bobby,  "I 
have  n't  given  her  anything  but  a  soda-cracker  this 
morning,  and  she  ate  that  flat-wise." 

C?' 

By  this  time  the  piteous  mewing  had  quite  ceased. 
u  She  has  got  caught  somewhere,  and  choked  herself 
to  death,"  said  Brunette,  who  was  apt  to  take  gloomy 
views. 

"  She  's  what's-his-name-iated,"  moaned  Bobby,  wip 
ing  his  eyes  on  his  sister's  overskirt.  He  had  that 
morning  been  reading  about  a  colliery  explosion  in 
Belgium. 

"  Let  's  go  down  stairs,  any  way,"  suggested  the 
mother,  gathering  up  her  cramped  limbs,  "  perhaps 
she  '11  try  to  come  out,  after  we  are  gone." 

"  If  she  does,  she  '11  be  spoiled  for  a  cat,"  murmured 
Brunette,  under  her  breath. 

The  saddened  trio  departed,  Bobby  afterward 
returning  surreptitiously  to  place  some  tempting 
viands  within  smelling  distance  of  the  crack,  and 
retiring  with  the  most  dismal  forebodings,  in  which  he 
was  joined  below  by  the  others. 

"  How  can  I  ever  eat  another  mouthful,"  said  the 
mother,  half  to  herself,  "  with  that  poor  creature  starv 
ing  in  the  wall  ?  It  will  drive  me  frantic  to  hear  her 
mew,  and  as  likely  as  not  the  Cruelty  Agent  will  get 
hold  of  it  —  " 

"  But  he  can't  pull  her  out  by  her  mew,  if  he  does 
get  hold  of  it,"  despairingly  commented  Bobby,  "  and 
I  do  wish  — " 

"  A  sweet  place  this  will  be  next  summer,"  groaned 


16  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Brunette,  her  agile  fancy  springing  forward  six  months 
at  a  bound,  "  which  is  the  best  disinfectant,  chloride  of 
lime,  copperas,  or  carbolic  acid  ?  " 

But  this  ghastly  discourse  was  too  painful,  and  a 
mournful  silence  succeeded.  After  a  wretched  hour, 
varied  by  occasional  trips  to  the  attic,  which  brought 
no  tidings,  the  mother  went  to  the  wood-shed,  return 
ing  a  moment  after,  laden  with  a  larger  stick,  a  ham 
mer,  a  cold-chisel,  and  a  washboard.  "  I  know  she  can 
never  get  up  through  that  crack,"  she  said,  — "  this 
washboard  is  stronger  than  the  axe-handle,  or  at  any 
rate,  I  can  split  a  floor-board  with  the  chisel."  And 
the  procession  wound  up  stairs  again. 

Half-way  up,  the  absurdity  of  the  affair  occurred 
to  her.  "  Too  bad ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  here  's  the  whole 
day  going,  just  wasted  on  that  cat!  I  believe  I  will 
never  take  pity  on  an  outcast  again  !  " 

"  It 's  shameful,"  grumbled  Brunette,  "  I  believe  if 
she  ever  does  get  out,  I  shall  feel  like  strangling  her. 
A  pretty  day's  work  for  Sunday,  indeed  !  " 

She  opened  the  attic  door  spitefully  as  she  spoke, 
and  that  cat  came  forward,  smiling,  to  meet  her 
friends,  with  her  whiskers  full  of  cobwebs,  and  her 
tail  over  her  left  shoulder. 


II. 

ANOTHER  POEM. 

"MOTHER!"  sang  out  Brunette,  one  morning,  as 
she  came  breezily  into  the  breakfast-room,  on  her 
return  from  a  flying  visit  to  the  attic,  cellar,  or  wood 
shed,  to  which,  in  common  with  many  other  people, 
she  always  had  some  inscrutable  errand  as  soon  as 
she  was  called  to  breakfast.  In  strict  candor,  it  ought 
to  be  mentioned  that  the  breakfast-room  of  this  frugal 
family  was  also  the  dining-room,  and  the  supper-room, 
and  the  luncheon-room,  and  the  tea-room  —  but  just 
now,  breakfast  was  on  the  table.  The  mother  was 
busily  rubbing  away  at  the  inside  of  a  coffee-cup, 
with  a  napkin,  and  did  not  reply.  "  There  ! "  said 
she,  suddenly  dropping  the  napkin,  "  it 's  only  that  old 
spot  in  the  glazing,  after  all!  I  suppose  I  shall  wipe 
that  cup  every  time  I  see  it,  as  long  as  it  lasts  !  Some 
people  never  do  learn  wisdom  from  experience,  and 
I  'm  one  of  them  !  " 

"  Mother !  "  said  Brunette  again.  She  had  a  pecu 
liar  way  of  addressing  her  mother  —  a  way  of  calling 
up  to  her,  as  though  that  amiable  woman  had  just 
taken  flight  from  the  earth,  and  were  hovering  just  in 
sight  above  her.  So  marked  was  this  expression  in 
Brunette's  frequent  exclamation,  that  her  mother, 

17 


18  THE   TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 

though  not  a  specially  brilliant  or  impressible  woman, 
yet  felt  it  to  that  extent  that  she  often  replied,  ner 
vously —  "Yes,  yes,  Brunette,  I'll  come  down 
directly." 

"  Why  don't  you  shout,  Brunette  ? "  said  Bob 
pertly ;  "  I  heard  somebody  say  at  a  camp-meeting, 
out  at  Old  Orchard,  once,  that  there  w:is  '  no  law 
against  shouting.' " 

But  Brunette  only  noticed  her  brother's  interrup 
tion  by  one  of  her  flashing  glances,  which  he  had  long 
ago  christened  "  a  settler."  It  "  settled  "  him  for  the 
present,  and  Brunette  went  on,  "  Mother,  I  've  written 
another  poem." 

The  mother  spake  not  a  word  —  she  simply  raised 
one  eyebrow. 

"  Well,  string  of  verses,  then,"  amended  Brunette, 
"you  certainly  have  the  most  speaking  countenance 
that  I  ever  heard.  I  believe  the  expression  of  vour 
eyebrows  would  be  audible  to  me,  if  I  were  in  another 
room.  And  I  'm  going  to  read  them  to  you,  and, 
Bob,  if  you  '11  be  good,  you  shall  hear  them,  too." 

Bob  groaned  in  a  sepulchral  tone,  and  grumbled  — 

"  Mother  told  me,  the  other  day,  about  old  times, 
when  people  were  very  wicked,  and  she  said  they 
used  to  poison  folks  that  they  didn't  like;  and  so 
some  of  the  kings  and  other  great  people  —  school 
teachers,  and  policemen,  and  editors,  and  such,  I 
s'pose — used  to  have  tasters.  A  taster  was  a  poor 
servant,  who  had  to  taste,  beforehand,  all  the  food  and 
drink  that  were  meant  for  the  king  —  to  see  if  they 


ANOTHER   POEM.  19 

had  been  poisoned.  That  's  just  how  you  do  by 
mother  and  me.  You  read  your  verses  to  us,  and  if 
we  can  stand  them,  you  think  they  will  do  to  publish. 
Only  I  guess  the  taster  in  old  times  got  some  pay  for 
his  work,  and  we  have  to  suffer  for  nothing,  and  take 
our  chances/' 

"  The  taster  in  old  times,"  said  Brunette,  with  an 
uncommonly  radiant  "settler,"  "probably  got  his 
board  and  clothes  for  attending  strictly  to  his  busi 
ness.  His  example  is  an  excellent  one  for  the  youth 
of  the  present  day." 

"  I  'm  sure,"  said  the  mother,  hastening  to  the  res 
cue,  "Bob  likes  your  verses.  Tie  has  a  scrap-book, 
and  he  puts  into  it  everything  you  give  him.  He  has 
a  number  of  your  poems  in  it  already,  as  well  as  sev 
eral  written  by  people  who  —  who  —  " 

"Know  how?"  added  Brunette  smiling,  "and  to 
reward  you  for  that  compliment,  I  will  read  my  verses 
to  you.  And,  moreover,  sometime  you  shall  hear  my 
three-volume  story ! " 

THE    EXTINGUISHER. 

Oh!  tales  are  told  and  songs  are  sung 

Of  toilers  far  and  near, 
The  soldier  and  the  fisherman, 

The  plodding  muleteer, 
The  lumberman  with  sounding  ax 

Where  northern  forests  bow, 
The  sailor  on  his  dizzy  ropes, 

The  farmer  at  his  plough  — 


20  THE   TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 

But  no  fond  bard  has  sung  the  praise 
Or  marked  the  weary  way 

Of  him  who  puts  the  street-lamps  out 
Before  the  dawn  of  day. 

Who  knows  at  what  unchristian  hour 

He  leaves  his  happy  sleep? 
Or  does  he  stay  all  night  awake 

His  lonesome  tryst  to  keep  ? 
And  does  he  walk  the  dismal  streets 

Without  a  thought  of  fear, 
!N"or  dread  to  meet  a  prowling  foe, 

3s"or  dream  of  danger  near  ? 
And  does  he  do  his  work  for  love 

Without  a  thought  of  pay, 
The  man  who  puts  the  street-lamps  out 

Before  the  dawn  of  day  ? 

They  call  the  midnight  hour  the  time 

When  cemeteries  yawn  — 
But  ah,  the  fearsome  time  o'  night 

Is  just  before  the  dawn  — 
The  darkest,  coldest,  dreariest  time, 

When  half  the  world  is  dumb, 
When  shadows  look  like  spectral  shapes, 

And  thieves  and  burglars  come 

When  windows  stare  like  sleepless  eyes, 

And  fogs  roll  up  the  bay  — 
Just  when  he  puts  the  street-lamps  out 

Before  the  dawn  of  day. 

But  worse  than  all  the  darkest  nights 
Are  those  when  low  and  late 

The  ghostly  moon  companions  him, 
And  follows  like  a  fate; 


ANOTHER    POEM.  21 

She  waits  at  corners  till  he  comes, 

Then  flits  before  he  knows, 
And  sends  a  phantom,  black  and  grim, 

To  track  him  where  he  goes; 
I  wonder  if  he  dreads  her  face, 

Or  likes  her  pallid  ray, 
This  man  who  puts  the  street-lamps  out 

Before  the  dawn  of  day  ? 

The  only  signs  of  life  he  sees 

But  wear  a  mournful  guise ; 
Behind  each  dim-lit  pane,  he  knows 

Some  sleepless  sorrow  lies; 
Some  woman  tends  a  suffering  child, 

Or  bathes  a  sick  man's  head, 
Or  some  devoted  spirit  keeps 

Its  vigil  by  the  dead  — 
And  hails  his  footstep  as  the  sign 

Of  morn's  returning  ray, 
What  time  he  puts  the  street-lamps  out 

Before  the  dawn  of  day. 

I  hear  him  when  the  inky  skies 

Pour  down  their  drenching  flood, 
His  boots  are  noisy  on  the  bricks, 

Or  silent  in  the  mud; 
I  hear  him  in  the  windy  nights 

When  blinds  and  windows  creak, 
I  hear  him  in  the  winter-time 

When  storms  are  wild  and  bleak  — 
And  yet  I  never  saw  the  face 

(Perhaps  no  mortal  may — ) 
Of  him  who  puts  the  street-lamps  out 

Before  the  dawn  of  day. 


THE   TRIANGULAll    SOCIETY. 

"I  question  whether  anybody  ever  took  that  sub 
ject  for  a  i)oeni  before,"  said  her  mother,  "  and  I  don't 
believe  any  editor  will  accept  the  verses." 

"/think,"  said  Bob,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  like 
a  contemplative  canary-bird,  "  I  think  that  would  be 
a  very  good  poem,  if  you  did  n't  have  so  many  adjec 
tives  in  it." 

"  Adjectives  !  "  exclaimed  Brunette,  «  why,  Bob,  I 
don't  believe  you  would  know  an  adjective  if  it 
should  walk  into  the  room  !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Bob,  still  trying  to  look  brave  and 
wise,  "I  heard  the  teacher  tell  one  of  the  girls  at 
school  the  other  day,  that  she  spoiled  her  composition 
with  so  many  adjectives ;  she  said  there  Avere  two  or 
three  of  'em  to  every  noun  ;  and  I  believe  that 's  what 
ails  your  poem.  Anyway,  I  wish  you'd  write  one 
without  any  adjectives,  and  see  if  it  would  be  any 
better." 

"Bob,"  said  his  sister,  kindly,  "if  criticism  ever 
helped  anybody,  I  shall  be  a  poet  one  of  these  days ; 
and  meanwhile,  little  one,  while  I  'm  waiting  to  be 
great,  I  '11  write  a  poem  to  suit  you.  I  think  I  shall 
have  time,  if  I  make  it  short." 

And  the  next  evening,  as  they  sat  around  the  supper- 
table  after  the  meal  was  finished,  Brunette  read  aloud, 
for  her  brother's  special  delectation,  the  following 
stanzas,  first  promising  him  the  copy  for  his  scrap- 
book. 


ANOTHER    POEM.  23 

THE   ADJECTIVE. 

Where  would  the  force  of  language  be 

Without  the  adjective  ? 
How  could  the  critic  wing  his  shaft? 

How  could  the  poet  live  ? 

How  could  the  novelist  portray 

The  creatures  of  his  brain, 
The  beauty  of  his  heroine, 

The  transport  of  his  swain  ? 

Xo  more  his  tide  of  eloquence 

The  orator  could  pour, 
Xo  more  the  man  of  science  fill 

His  treasuries  of  lore. 

The  lover's  tongue  could  never  tell 

His  passion  and  despair; 
Deprived  of  its  superlatives 

Who  would  for  flattery  care  ? 

Where  would  the  sting  of  satire  be  ? 

The  edge  and  point  of  wit  ? 
How  could  the  stab  of  censure  wound, 

The  dart  of  sarcasm  hit? 

Biographers  would  cease  to  prowl, 

Historians  drop  the  pen, 
Paralysis  would  chill  and  numb 

The  tongues  and  minds  of  men,— 

The  press  would  lose  its  voice  of  might, 

The  pulpit  all  its  power, 
The  sage  could  not  describe  a  star, 

The  botanist  a  flower, — 


24  THE   TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 

So  rarely  is  a  period  penned, 

A  line  or  sentence  made, 
Or  thought  set  down,  O  adjective, 

"Which  does  not  claim  thy  aid  I 

Yet  I  for  once  defy  thy  might, 

For  mark  me,  as  I  live, 
Ko  stanza  of  the  nine  here  writ 

Contains  an  adjective! 

"  I  don't  like  that  as  well  as  I  do  some  of  the 
others."  said  Bob,  in  a  disappointed  tone,  "  perhaps 
it  is  n't  the  adjective  that  ails  'em,  after  all.  I  met  a 
lady  coming  out  of  a  grocery,  the  other  day,  with  some 
sort  of  fruit  in  a  paper  bag,  and  she  said  to  her  little 
girl  that  it  was  luscious,  and  when  I  asked  mother 
what  "  luscious  "  was,  she  said  it  was  an  adjective. 
I  guess  I  like  adjectives,  after  all.  And  the  teacher 
told  the  girl  at  school  that  an  adjective  was  only  a 
part  of  speech,  and  there  were  lots  of  other  parts,  I 
don't  remember  how  many ;  and  how  would  it  do  if 
you  should  make  a  poem  all  of  adjectives,  and  leave 
out  all  the  other  parts  of  speech  ?" 

"  Bob,"  said  his  sister,  kissing  him,  with  a-little  sigh, 
<:  you  're  as  brilliant  as  most  of  the  critics,  and  you 
have  n't  had  half  their  advantages.  I  '11  tell  you  what 
I  '11  do  —  the  next  poem  I  write  specially  for  you,  I  '11 
leave  out  all  the  parts  of  speech^  and  I  think  it  will 
just  suit  you,  yellow-head  !  " 


III. 

AN    UNCONFESSED    POET. 

"MOTHER!"  cried  Brunette,  pulling  off  her  hat  as 
she  entered  the  room,  and  letting  her  black  hair  tum 
ble  all  about  her  face  in  the  process,  "  I  want  to  tell 
you  —  " 

"  Brunette,"  said  her  mother  solemnly,  "  there 's 
only  one  adjective  which  applies  to  your  hair,  —  it 's 
exuberant.  Do  tone  it  down  a  little." 

"  Why  don't  you  quote  the  college  song,  and  call  it 
copious  ? "  asked  Brunette,  taking  a  dancing  turn 
around  the  room  to  the  tune  of  "  Sweedle-inktum  " ; 
"but  that  was  n't  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  said 
she,  dropping  so  suddenly  and  solidly  into  a  chair  that 
the  floor  trembled.  **  I  read  today  in  one  of  the 
papers  that  a  gentleman  well  known  in  this  town  — 
he  must  be  a  poet  at  heart,  although  he  has  heretofore 
kept  it  from  the  public  —  " 

"  There  are  some  failings,  my  daughter,"  said  the 
mother,  "  which  even  the  best  of  us  instinctively  keep 
to  ourselves." 

"  AY  ell,"  replied  Brunette,  with  a  grimace,  "  he  's 
betrayed  himself  now,  at  any  rate." 

"  lias  he  let  some  astrologist  examine  his  head?" 
asked  Bob,  crowding  between  them,  "and  did  the 
2  25 


26  THE   TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY.. 

astrologist,  or  the  apologist,  I  forget  which,  find  that 
the  soft  place  had  n't  grown  up  yet  ?  You  know  you 
told  me  once,  that  the  soft  place  that  is  in  all  babies' 
skulls,  don't  grow  up  and  get  hard  in  the  head  of  one 
who  is  going  to  be  a  poet,  did  n't  you,  now  ?  "  asked 
Bob,  half  ready  to  cry  at  the  difficulties  of  his  expla 
nation. 

Brunette  looked  keenly  at  her  mother.  "  Did  you 
and  Bob  have  that  talk  after  I  read  you  my  last 
poem?"  she  asked.  But  the  mother  looked  up  can 
didly,  and  asked,  "  Well,  what  about  the  well-known 
Portland  gentleman  ?  " 

"Why,"  said  Brunette,  mollified  by  her  mother's 
interest,  "  he  has  bought  an  island  down  the  bay,  and 
actually  planted  it  all  over  with  acorns,  in  order  to 
have  a  great  growth  of  oak  trees  for  ship-timber." 

"  Ship-timber !  where  will  lie  be,  when  trees  from 
newly-planted  acorns  are  large  enough  for  ship-tim 
ber  ?  "  gasped  the  mother. 

"  That  's  a  question  between  himself  and  his  con 
science,"  replied  Brunette,  "  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
if  he  is  alive  then,  he  will  be  considerably  older  than 
he  is  now  ;  rniddle-aged,  at  any  rate.  But  that  makes 
no  difference  with  the  poetical  phase  of  the  affair. 
I  think  —  " 

"  What  is  a  middle-age  man  ? "  asked  Bob,  who 
had  a  bad  habit  of  interrupting  his  sister.  It  was  the 
principal  ground  of  debate  between  them.  "  Mother, 
is  a  middle-age  man  one  who  was  born  in  the  middle 
ages?" 


.    AN    UNOONFESSED    POET.  27 

"  Bob  Smith,"  said  his  sister  severely,  "  I  wish 
mother  would  never  answer  a  single  one  of  your 
interruption-questions.  I  was  saying  that  I  think  the 
matter  of  the  acorn  plantation  is  highly  suggestive, 
and  I  'm  going  to  write  something  about  it.  A  fine 
poem  might  be  made  on  the  subject,  but  I  don't 
expect  to  do  it  justice." 

"  There  she  goes  again,"  muttered  Bob ;  "  the  least 
thing  sets  her  off  to  writing  verses.  Even  an  acorn 
will  do  it."  But  Brunette  went  on  : 

"  How  long  does  it  take  an  oak  tree  to  grow  from 
a  seed  ?  Fifty  years  would  n't  make  much  of  a  tree, 
would  they  ?  A  hundred,  perhaps.  The  song  says, 
'  And  still  flourish  he,  a  hale  green  tree,  when  a  hun 
dred  years  are  flown.'  In  a  hundred  years,  perhaps, 
the  government  will  take  a  fancy  to  have  a  navy,  and 
then  the  acorn-planted  island  will  yield  a  dozen  for 
tunes  to  somebody,  if  the  crows  dxm't  eat  the  acorns 
up  before  they  grow." 

"  Crows  don't  eat  acorns !  "  exclaimed  Bob,  who 
prided  himself  on  his  natural  history.  "  They  eat  corn 
and  insects,  and  I  saw  in  a  newspaper  the  other  day, 
that  the  crow  is  the  farmer's  friend,  and  I  suppose 
that  is  why  he  goes  to  see  the  farmer  and  stays  all 
summer." 

"  Crows  eat  many  other  things  beside  corn  and 
insects,"  said  the  mother.  "  A  friend  of  mine  in  New 
Jersey  says,  that  crows  actually  carry  off  his  chickens 
out  of  the  door-yard.  When  I  tried  to  make  him 
believe  that  the  mischief  was  done  by  hawks,  he 


28  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

declared  that  he  had  often  seen  the  crows  descend  and 
capture  chickens.  It  struck  me  as  queer,  because  I 
have  known  Maine  farmers  to  keep  black  hens,  in 
order,  as  they  said,  to  keep  off  hawks  from  the  farm 
yard,  since  hawks  are  afraid  of  crows,  and  will  not 
willingly  approach  them." 

"And  so  are  expected  to  take  black  hens  for 
crows  ?  "  asked  Brunette. 

"  And  so  are  expected  not  to  take  them  at  all,  but 
to  avoid  the  neighborhood  altogether." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Brunette,  suddenly  returning  to 
her  original  subject,  "  I  thought  we  were  talking  about 
planting  acorns,  and  here  we  are,  discussing  the  merits 
of  black  hens  as  scarecrows." 

"  As  for  acorns,"  said  her  mother,  "  does  n't  Long 
fellow  speak  in  Evangeline,  about  crows  '  with  naught 
in  their  craws  but  an  acorn  ? ' ' 

Brunette  laughed.  "  Why,  little  mother,"  she  said, 
"those  were  wild  pigeons,  instead  of  crows.  I  hardly 
believe  the  wild  pigeons  will  meddle  with  the  gentle 
man's  acorn-farm  on  the  island.  And  after  supper, 
to-morrow  evening,  I  am  going  to  read  you  my  verses 
on  the  subject,  and  see  if  you  think  them  worth  offer 
ing  for  publication." 

Bob  had  read  enough  of  the  cheap  chronic  witti 
cisms  in  the  newspapers,  to  convince  him  that  "  poet 
ry  "  was  a  weakness  properly  relegated  to  silly  girls 
and  light-ballasted  young  men ;  so  he  generally  affected 
great  contempt  for  it,  and  although  at  heart  he 
delighted  in  it,  and  liked  Brunette's  readings,  he  felt 


AN   UNCONFESSED   POET.  29 

it  a  duty  to  put  in  a  demurrer  whenever  opportunity 
offered. 

After  supper  was  cleared  away  the  next  day,  Bru 
nette  read  her  poem. 

ACORN   PLANTING. 
Bury  the  seeJ-germs  deep,  before  the  snow, 

No  pledge  for  amber  grain  or  golden  ears, 
But  for  a  fleet  of  ships,  whose  hulls  shall  grow 

Out  of  these  acorn  shells  — in  fifty  years. 

Who  plants  but  for  a  summer-time,  has  need 
Of  steady  faith  to  rule  his  doubts  and  fears ; 

How  full  of  trust  the  soul  that  sows  the  seed 
Whose  harvest  ripens  not  for  fifty  years  I 

Upon  these  germs  shall  Nature's  forces  wait, 
Sunlight  and  dew  shall  nurse  the  tender  shoots, 

The  landward  breezes  bring  their  misty  freight, 
And  timely  rains  refresh  the  thirsty  roots. 

On  the  slow  marvel  of  their  annual  growth 
Shall  fickle  skies  alternate  frown  and  smile, 

And  richest  green  and  deepest  scarlet  both 
In  turn  make  beautiful  the  desert  isle. 

How  will  the  strong  limbs  writhe  in  woe  and  pain, 
When  winter  tempests  rise  in  howling  wrath, 

When  roaring  waves  sweep  inward  from  the  main, 
And  sailors'  wives  turn  pale  beside  the  hearth! 

And  when  the  noble  boughs  swing  wide  and  high, 
And  the  rejoicing  trees  wax  tall  and  great, 

Then,  on  their  seeming  immortality, 
Will  fall  the  sudden  thunderbolt  of  fate,— 


30  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Strong  arms  will  level  all  their  leafy  grace, 
Deft  hands  will  hew  and  shape,  —  and  spar  and  mast, 

Keel,  rib  and  beam  and  plank  will  find  their  place, 
And  lo!  the  tardy  harvest  smiles  at  last  I 

More  marvellous  than  aught  in  that  old  tale 

Of  dragons'  teeth  which  sprouted  men  and  spears, 

The  story  of  the  vessels  which  shall  sail 
Out  of  these  acorn  cups  —  in  fifty  years  I 

Perchance  some  happy  trunks,  unscathed,  may  be 
Spared  in  their  splendid  strength  and  stateliness 

To  greet  the  morning  rising  from  the  sea 
New,  yet  the  same  — a  hundred  years  from  this. 

The  squirrel,  wisely  lightening  toil  with  mirth, 
Will  frisk  and  fill  his  cheeks,  upon  the  bough, 

Then,  chattering,  hide  his  treasures  in  the  earth, 
In  autumn  days,  a  hundred  years  from  now. 

Shy,  sweet-voiced  birds  will  warble  in  their  shade, 
Far  from  all  human  stir  and  turbulence, 

And  rear  their  downy  offspring  unaf raifl 

The  song-birds  of  a  hundred  summers  hence. 

But  you  and  I,  my  friend,  who  muse  and  smile 
Over  these  fancies,— we  shall  be,  by  then, 

Bowed,  and  dim-eyed,  and  wan;  — so  little  while 
Makes  ships  of  acorns,  and  makes  wrecks  of  men! 


IV. 

A   SNOW-STORM. 

"  WHAT  a  beautiful  snow-storm  !  "  exclaimed  the 
mother,  as  she  drew  up  the  sitting-room  curtains  one 
morning.  Being  of  a  somewhat  sentimental  turn,  she 
was  apt  to  look  at  the  pretty  side  of  things  first,  and 
it  did  not  at  the  moment  occur  to  her,  that  a  storm 
which  had  piled  the  snow  so  high  against  the  front 
and  side  of  the  house,  that  the  windows  were  half 
obscured  by  the  drifts,  might  have  another  than  the 
"  beautiful  "  side.  It  had  snowed,  blown,  and  drifted, 
,  all  the  early  part  of  the  night ;  but  the  wind  had 
fallen  before  the  snow  ceased,  and  every  fence-post, 
and  lamp-post,  and  garden-stake  was  capped  with  a- 
soft,  feathery  turban,  while  every  weed  and  flower- 
stalk  which  was  tall  enough  to  appear  through  the 
snow,  wore  also  its  spotless  and  downy  crown.  The 
mother  unlocked  and  opened  the  front  door,  and  met 
a  solid  wall  of  snow  so  high  that  she  could  just  see 
over  it. 

<;  No  admittance  except  on  business,"  said  Brunette, 
peeping  over  it  by  standing  on  tiptoe,  "  and  no  egress 
on  any  plea.  Whatever  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"I've  o;ot  a  nice  new  snow-shovel,"  cried  Bob, 
appearing  bent  double  over  the  stair-balusters,  and 

31 


32 


THE   TKIAXGULAE   SOCIETY. 


coming  down  with  a  reckless  slide,  and  one  boot  in 
his  hand,  «  and  I  can  shovel  it  all  away,  after  break 
fast." 

"You/"  said  Brunette,  "you'll  make  about  as 
much  impression  as  a  sparrow  could  with  a  teaspoon." 

"  Sparrows  never  shovel  snow  with  teaspoons,"  said 
Bob,  doggedly. 

"  Well,  when  I  was  little,  grandmother  used  to  tell 
me,  when  I  asked  her  what  became  of  the  snow  in 
the  spring,  that  the  birds  ate  it  up,"  said  his  sister, 
"and  if  they  do,  it  's  more  than  likely  that  they  use  a 
teaspoon.  I  wish  they  M  eat  this,"  she  continued,  anx 
iously,  "for  nobody  can  get  out  to  hunt  up  a  man,  and 
no  human  being  will  come  near  us  to  see  whether  we 
are  dead  or  alive." 

"  Yes,  there  will,"  said  practical  Bob,  who  already 
felt  an  interest  in  municipal  government.  "  I  saw,  the 
other  day,  in  the  newspaper,  that  anybody  who  don't 
have  his  sidewalk  cleared  of  snow  in  season,  will  be 
arrested,  and  prosecuted,  and  persecuted,  and  fined, 
and  executed  according  to  law;  and  you  see  if  the 
Mayor  and  council  don't  come  up  here  and  arrest 
mother,  unless  you  let  me  go  out  and  shovel  the  snow 

"If  the  Mayor  and  council  of  aldermen  should 
come  up  here,"  said  Brunette,  « they  would  at  least 
break  a  nice  road,  and  the  fine  would  n't  amount  to 
much  more  than  we  should  have  to  pay  for  a  man  to 
shovel.  The  last  storm,  mother  actually  paid  a  man  a 
dollar  for  half -shovel  ling  the  walk.  I  could  have  done 


A   SNOW-STORM.  33 

it  better  myself,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  do  it 
for  that  money,  if  only  the  neighbors,  great  two-fisted 
men,  would  n't  lean  on  their  shovels  and  compliment 
me  on  my  smartness,"  said  Brunette,  her  eyes  kindling 
with  resentment. 

"Compliments  are  apt  to  be  plentier  than  assist 
ance,"  replied  the  mother,  who  had  had  her  share  of 
the  former,  but  very  little  of  the  latter.  "I  don't 
want  to  find  fault  with  my  neighbors,  or  to  ask  help 
of  them,  but  sometimes,  when  the  wind  favors  them, 
and  burdens  me  —  " 

"  Yes,"  flashed  Brunette,  "  when  the  wind  does  as 
it  did  last  night,  sweeps  every  bit  of  the  snow  off  Mr. 
Jones'  sidewalk,  and  piles  it  all  up  on  ours,  and  he 
with  two  or  three  men  in  the  family,  and  we  with 
none,  I  think  it  's  scandalous  for  him  to  go  off  down 
town,  laughing,  and  leaving  me  to  shovel  the  snow 
that  really  ought  to  go  half  to  him.  Why,  we  have 
more  than  double  the  snow  which  really  belongs  to  us." 
« To  him  that  hath,  shall  be  given,"  quoted  the 
mother,  "  and  though  I  could  never  see  the  justice  of 
it,  either  in  the  matter  of  snow,  sorrow,  or  riches,  it 
appears  that  we  can't  help  ourselves.  Bob  can  make  a 
beginning  on  the  drifts,  after  breakfast,  and  if  nobody 
comes  near  to  ask  for  a  job,  you  and  I  must  take  a 
turn  at  it  this  evening,  when  no  one  will  see  us,  and 
at  least  make  a  passage  to  the  street,  so  that  we  can 
hunt  up  a  shoveller." 

The  day  was  as  absolutely  quiet  as  it  is  possible  for 
a  day  on  earth  to  be,  excepting,  perhaps,  in  the  far 


34  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

frozen  silence  of  the  North  pole.  No  sleighs,  or  sleds, 
or  vehicles  of  any  sort  were  heard.  No  visitors  came, 
no  errands  were  done,  no  supplies  came  in,  no  one  ven 
tured  out  in  the  remote  street,  far  from  business 
thoroughfares,  wherein  was  the  half-buried  dwelling 
of  this  self-contained  and  self-dependent  family.  Bob 
went  from  window  to  window,  to  vary  the  prospect  of 
snow,  snow,  snow;  the  mother  busied  herself  with 
some  of  those  occult  tusks  which  the  ruling  spirit  of 
the  household  always  saves  for  "  a  good  quiet  day, 
when  there  will  be  no  callers;"  and  Brunette  spent 
some  time  upstairs.  She  emerged  in  the  afternoon, 
however,  and  to  Bob's  outspoken  delight,  read  aloud 
the  following  fruit  of  her  seclusion. 

SNOWED  IN. 

All  night  when  the  rattling  windows  ceased  a  moment  to 
strive  and  beat, 

We  heard  the  merciless  wind  pursue  the  whisking,  whis 
pering  sleet, 

And  gazing  now  with  the  dawn's  first  gleam  through 
panes  by  frost  impearled, 

We  see  but  a  waste  of  whirling  white,  — what  has  become 
of  the  world  ? 

We  open  the  outer  door  to  meet  a  solid,  snowy  wall, 
That,  uninvited  and  unannounced,  comes  tumbling  into 

the  hall; 
The  path  from  door  to  gateway  is  as  though  it  had  not 

been; 
And  we  are  lost  to  the  world  to-day  —  cut  off—  left  out  — 

snowed  in! 


A  SNOW-STORM.  35 

There  is  no  creak  of  laboring  teams  —  no  jingle  of  cutter 
bells  - 

No  schoolgirl's  giggle,  and  clicking  heels  — no  school 
boy's  senseless  yells  — 

There  is  no  sound  in  the  whole  long  street  of  whistle,  or 
laugh,  or  talk, 

But  shovel  responds  to  shovel  again,  along  the  drifted 
walk. 

The  snow-birds  sit  in  the  leafless  tree,  and  laugh  at  our 
sorry  plight; 

Even  the  postman  plays  us  false,  and  never  comes  in 
sight; 

The  drift  grows  deeper  across  the  walk,  and  deeper  still 
by  the  wall, 

And  the  milk-boy  slights  the  waiting  can,  and  the  clam- 
man  fails  to  call. 

Between  the  dwarfed  and  night-capped  posts,  the  useless 
clothes-lines  swing  — 

And  Monday's  clothes  will  go  unhung,  for  who  would 
wash  and  wring, 

With  drifts  hip-high  in  the  drying-yard,  and  never  a  soul 
about 

To  shovel  and  tread  the  zigzag  paths,  and  dig  the  door 
steps  out  ? 

And  hours  go  by,  and  still  it  snows,  till  the  fences  stand 

knee-deep, 
And  ever  between  the  house  and  street  there  drifts  a 

higher  heap; 

The  empty  milk-can  on  the  step  is  hidden  out  of  sight; 
We  shall  have  no  milk  for  our  frugal  toast,  no  cream  for 

our  tea  to-night! 


36  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Snowed  in!  and  we  might  die  to-day,  and  lie  here  dead  a 

week, 
And  who  would  question  our  whereabouts,  or  come  to 

ask  and  seek  ? 
Not  one  would  wonder  where  we  'd  gone,  or  when  or 

how  we  went, 
Until  the  landlord  came  to  bring  his  monthly  bill  for  rent  I 

A  little  before  dark,  Brunette  tied  down  her  rebel 
lious  hair  with  a  scarf,  wound  a  shawl  closely  about 
her  chest  and  tied  it  behind,  drew  a  pair  of  hose  on 
over  her  boots,  and,  armed  with  Bob's  wooden  shovel, 
went  out  to  "  make  a  break  for  the  gate,"  as  she  said. 
She  was  neither  very  large  nor  very  muscular,  but  she 
was  in  perfect  health,  and,  as  Bob  said,  she  had  "  vim 
enough  for  half  a  dozen  girls."  She  was  not  tall 
enough  to  lift  the  snow  from  the  top  of  the  front-door 
drift ;  so  she  began  by  boring  into  it,  tunnel-wise,  and 
packing  the  snow  on  each  side.  She  had  nearly  got 
down  the  steps  to  the  ground  in  this  way,  when  the 
tunnel  roof  fell  in  altogether,  nearly  smothering  her, 
and  filling  every  fold  of  her  garments  with  fine  snow. 
She  kept  on,  however,  valiantly,  though  the  wind, 
whenever  she  raised  the  shovelful  of  snow,  blew  back 
about  half  of  it  in  her  face.  Her  feet  ached,  and  her 
ears  tingled ;  her  skirts  flapped  and  tangled,  and 
impeded  the  way  of  the  shovel,  and,  presently,  the 
sharp  corner  of  the  latter  cut  a  triangular  piece  out 
of  the  bottom  of  her  neat  black  dress. 

"  Now,  that  's  too  bad  !  "  said  she ;  "  skirts  were 
never  made  to  shovel  snow  in,  any  way ;  and  yet,  if  T 


A   SNOW-STORM.  37 

should  put  on  the  garb  adapted  to  my  work,  the  cos 
tume  that  men  find  so  '  convenient,  comfortable,  and 
economical,'  they  would  arrest  me  for  it.  That  's  the 
comfort  of  living  in  a  free  country,"  said  Brunette, 
throwing  her  shovel  away  accidentally,  and  plunging 
after  it,  while  Bob  toiled  after  her  with  an  old  broom. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour,  she  appeared  in  the  kitchen, 
rosy  and  wrathful.  While  her  mother  was  brushing 
the  snow  off  her  daughter  with  a  whisk,  Brunette 
broke  out,  with  a  vehemence  that  affected  that  amia 
ble  woman's  elbows  like  a  shock  from  a  galvanic 
battery. 

"  What  's  the  use  of  saying  that  labor  is  respected  ? 
The  newspapers  say  it,  the  copy-books  say  it,  and 
preachers  and  teachers  and  lecturers  of  all  sorts  say 
it,  in  one  way  or  another.  But  it  is  n't  so.  Nobody 
respects  it ;  everybody  despises  it.  It  was  pronounced 
a  curse  in  the  garden  of  Eden,  and  it 's  been  a  disgrace 
ever  since ;  at  any  rate,  to  women,  although  the  doom 
of  labor  was  n't  pronounced  on  Eve,  at  least  by  any 
body  but  that  coward  Adam." 

"  Brunette  !  "  exclaimed  her  mother,  "  what  has 
become  of  my  industrious,  brave,  and  patient  little 
girl  ?  You  are  too  sweeping,  my  child  !  " 

"  No,  I  am  shovelling,"  answered  Brunette,  "  Bob  is 
sweeping.  See !  he  looks  for  all  the  world  like  a 
yellow-haired  fairy  with  a  long-stemmed  thistle-blos 
som.  But  if  you  think  I  am  wrong,  if  you  have  lived 
all  this  time,  believing  that  honest  labor  is  always 
respected,  please  explain  this.  If  I  should  go  out 


38  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

there  in  the  door-yard  and  stand  half  an  hour,  simply 
looking  up  and  down  the  street,  a  hundred  men  might 
pass,  and  not  one  of  them  would  speak  to  me,  or  even 
look  at  me.     They  know  it  would  be  an  impertinence 
to  speak  to  a  lady  who  is  at  her  own  gate,  probably 
waiting  for  her  father  or  brother  to  come  to  supper. 
But  when  I  go  out  there  with  a  little  shovel,  and  try 
to  make  a  path  to  the  gate,  half  the  persons  who  pass, 
feel   free   to   speak  to  me.     Not   only  the   neighbors 
whom  I  know  by  sight,  but  actually  people  whom  I 
never  saw  before,  will  sing  out  about  the  weather,  or 
remark  about  the  depth  of  snow,  or  tell  me  that  it 's 
hard  shovelling,  or  something  of  the  sort,  as  though  I 
were  a  sort  of  crony,  and  on  the  best  terms  of  acquaint 
ance  with  them,  and  they  had  a  right  to  be  4  Hail 
fellow  well    met7   with    me.       Why?      If    labor  is 
respected,  why  don't  they  show  me  as  much  respect 
when  I  am  at  work,  as  when  I  am  doing  nothing  ?    It 
was  just  so  last  summer,"  she  went  on,  putting  her 
hand  lightly  over  her  mother's  mouth ;  "  when  I  went 
out  in  the  door-yard  at  sunset,  and  walked   stately 
among  the  flower-beds,  nobody  ever  gave  me  a  word 
or  a  look,  but  minded  his  own  affairs  ;  but  after  the 
grass  was  mowed,  and  the  man,  like  all  the  men  we 
employ,  failed  to  finish  the  job,  and  left  the  hay  to 
blow  all  over  my  flowers,  and  I  got  tired  of  it,  and 
took  the  rake,  one  evening,  and  solemnly  raked  it  up, 
what  do  you  think  ?    At  least  every  third  man  that 
went   by,  said  something  to  me  about    my  occupa 
tion;  said  the  grass  was  light,  or  the  rake  was  heavy, 


A   SNOW-STORM.  39 

or  that  I  understood  my  business,  or  something  of  the 
sort.  Xot  all  clowns,  either,  but  some  of  them  well- 
dressed,  and  looking  like  gentlemen,  who  would  n't 
have  thought  of  speaking  to  me  if  I  had  been  simply 
'  loafing  at  my  ease,  observing  a  spear  of  grass.'  At 
last,  when  one  man  planted  his  elbows  on  the  fence 
and  took  himself  by  the  ears,  preparatory  to  a  long 
conversation,  I  dropped  the  rake  and  came  in.  Xow, 
is  all  tliat  corroboration  of  the  popular  assertion  that 
honest  labor  is  always  respected  ?  Tell  me  that !  " 

"  Brunette,"  said  her  mother  tenderly,  kissing  one 
of  her  burning  cheeks,  "you  are  all  out  of  breath, 
child,  and  supper  is  ready ;  and  there  are  a  few  things 
which  even  your  mother  cannot  satisfactorily  explain." 

After  supper,  Brunette  still  farther  relieved  her 
mind  by  the  following  lines  on  the  current  topic. 

SHOVELLING  SNOW. 

A  bountiful  snowfall,  over  night. 

And  street  and  sidewalk  are  blocked  with  white  — 

Ami  plied  by  many  a  sturdy  hand, 

The  sound  of  the  shovel  is  heard  in  the  land  — 

Ah.  hapless  delvers.  who  rise  at  six, 

To  excavate  for  the  buried  bricks! 

Alas,  the  labors  of  shovel  and  spade 
On  all  the  railroads  that  ever  were  made, 
Can  never  begin  with  the  toilsome  woe 
Of  muscle  wasted  in  shovelling  snow;— 
And  when  all  the  winters  task  is  o'er, 
The  world  is  the  same  as  it  was  before  I 


40  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

In  all  other  digging  under  the  sun, 

There  's  something  gained  by  the  labor  done  — 

A  well,  a  highway,  a  grave,  a  ditch, 

Canal  or  garden,  no  matter  which; 

But  what  is  there  left  to  save  or  show 

Of  a  winter's  labor  in  shovelling  snow  ? 

Ah,  struggle  for  triumph  that  never  is  won! 
What  does  it  come  to,  when  all  is  done  ? 
For  after  the  toiler  has  blistered  his  palms, 
And  strained  his  shoulders  and  lamed  his  arms, 
He  has  cleared  with  infinite  toil  and  pain, 
A  place  for  the  snow  to  fill  again! 

Three  undertakings  beneath  the  sun 
Are  never  abandoned,  and  never  done  — 
Though  generations  their  lives  expend, 
They  '11  never  be  finished  till  time  shall  end; 
These  three,  as  many  have  cause  to  know, 
Are  house-work,  kissing,  and  shovelling  snow. 

Bob,  who  was  not  over-critical  about  artistic  hand 
ling,  when  the  subject-matter  of  verse  happened  to 
please  him,  was  much  entertained  by  this  nonsense. 
He  had  not  seemed  to  be  in  his  usual  merry  health 
for  a  day  or  two,  and  the  afternoon's  dissipation 
among  the  snow-drifts  had  not  improved  the  matter ; 
he  was  evidently  rather  under  the  weather.  Brunette 
decided  that  he  needed  a  little  coddling,  with  herb 
tea  and  hot  water  as  accessories ;  and  while  she  was 
roasting  and  toasting  him  to  her  heart's  content  that 
evening,  she  diverted  his  attention  by  singing  him  the 


A   SNOW-STORM.  41 

following  song,  to   a  familiar  air  which   chanced  just 
then  to  be  extremely  popular. 

THE   SONG   OF   THE   SEASON. 

Darling,  you  have  taken  cold, 
It  is  e*asy  to  be  told,— 
That  's  the  sixteenth  time  to-day 
You  have  sneezed  that  dreadful  way! 
I  '11  exhibit  presently 
Foot-baths  hot,  and  ginger  tea, 
Else,  my  darling,  you  will  be 
Sick  as  Punch,  't  is  plain  to  see. 

You  must  take  a  sweat  to-night, 
And  when  you  are  melted  quite 
With  the  heat  and  perspira 
tion,  I  cannot  choose  but  say  — 
Oh,  my  darling,  mine  alone! 
I  am  grieved  to  hear  you  groan, 
But  this  remedy,  my  own, 
Is  the  best  prescription  known. 

Darling,  we  must  cure  your  cold, 
Or,  ere  ever  you  grow  old, 
Rheumatism  will  rack  you  — oh, 
But  its  twinges  torture  so! 
Ah,  this  weather's  wicked  will 
Is  enough  to  make  you  ill  — 
Yes,  my  darling,  frost  and  chill 
Sharpen  many  a  doctor's  bill. 

Let  me  move  your  easy  chair 
Farther  from  this  draught  of  air  — 


42  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Put  your  feet  up  in  a  row 

On  the  nice  warm  stove-hearth,  so; 

I  am  fearful  you  have  grown 

Careless  of  your  health,  my  own, 

For  you  cough,  and  wheeze,  and  moan, 

Like  a  phthisicky  trombone. 

L'EISTVOI. 

Darling,  you  have  taken  cold, 
That  is  easy  to  be  told, 
Sneezing  in  that  dreadful  way, — 
That  's  the  sixteenth  time  to-day  I 


V. 

ACCEPTING  A  SITUATION. 

"  MOTHER  !  "  called  Brunette,  one  evening  just  at 
twilight,  as  she  came  into  the  sitting-room  from  her 
own  chamber,  where  she  had  been  closeted  for  some 
hours.  There  was  a  serious  look  between  her  eyes, 
and  an  ink-stain  on  her  right  forefinger.  "  Mother,  I 
believe  I  shall  accept  a  situation." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  my  child  ?"  asked  her 
mother,  looking  up  from  Bob's  shoe,  on  which  she  was 
sewing  buttons,  while  he  made  the  most  of  the  oppor 
tunity  to  run  up  and  down  the  room  "  stocking- 
footed,"  as  he  called  it.  "  Has  anybody  offered  you 
one  ?  If  so,  who,  when,  what,  where,  and  how  ?  " 

"  That  inquiry  covers  the  whole  ground,"  said  Bru 
nette,  "but  when  you  have  studied  newspapers  as 
much  as  I  have,  you  will  perceive  that  '  accepting  a 
situation  '  does  n't  necessarily  mean  that  one  has  been 
offered ;  at  least,  not  in  the  newspaper  business.  When 
a  college-boy  feels  within  him  the  impulse  to  mould  the 
masses,  and  enlighten  the  world,  and  recognizes  jour 
nalism  as  the  path  to  these  glorious  ends,  and  begins 
to  inquire  among  his  friends,  and  write  letters  to  pub 
lishers,  and  visit  newspaper  offices,  and  air  his  Greek 
and  Latin  before  the  editors,  and  perhaps  try  to  cut 

43 


44  THE   TEIANGULAK   SOCIETY. 

some  poor  woman  out  of  her  situation  by  offering  to 
work  for  less  than  she  does,  and  finally  gets  a  chance 
to  work  a  month  for  nothing,  on  trial,  it  is  announced 
in  the  dailies. th:it  he  has  'accepted  a  situation'  on  the 
staff  of  the  tri-weekly  Trombone." 

"  A  situation  on  a  staff !  "  echoed  Bob,  refusing  to 
see  that  his  shoes  were  waiting ;  «  that  's  worse  than 
old  Simeon  Stylites,  you  told  me  about.  He  had  a  situ 
ation  on  a  pillar,  but  if  the  pillar  was  a  good  soft 
one  —  " 

"  And,"  went  on  Brunette,  overriding  the  comment, 
"  when  he  fails  utterly  to  be  good  for  anything,  and 
the  editor  gives  him  up  as  a  bad  job,  and  presents 
him  with  a  letter  of  introduction  and  recommendation 
to  some  other  editor,  then  the  papers  say  that  he  has 
'severed  his  connection  with  the  Trombone,  and  is 
now  enjoying  a  vacation  preparatory  to  entering  a 
larger  field  of  usefulness.'  Now  I  have  always  felt  as 

though  /"might  write  for  the  newspapers " 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me,"  exclaimed  the  mother,  putting 
the  remaining  boot-buttons  into  the  wrong  box, 
"you've  got  it,  the  what  's-his-name  scribendi  —  I 
never  could  pronounce  the  other  word  —  and  they  say 
people  never  recover  fiom  it." 

"Is  it  catching?"  asked  Bob,  looking  with  largo 
eyes  from  one  to  the  other,  "  and  will  it  keep  me  out 
of  school?" 

"  I  think  not,"  retorted  Brunette  ;  "  you  '11  have  it 
very  lightly,  if  at  all.  I  don't  believe  you  will  even 
break  out  with  it.  Persons  of  your  complexion  rarely 


ACCEPTING   A   SITUATION.  45 

do,"  she  said,  in  a  milder  tone,  looking  at  the  fair  face, 
blue  eyes,  and  blonde  hair,  which  offered  so  decided  a 
contrast  to  her  own. 

"Now,  Brunette,  don't  underrate  your  brother," 
said  the  mother.  "  I  have  often  heard  it  said  that  great 
men  are  more  frequently  light-complexioned  than  dark, 
and  —  " 

"  The  only  great  man  I  ever  saw,"  interrupted  Bru 
nette,  "never  changed  his  complexion  at  all,  but 
stayed  one  color  all  the  time,  a  sort  of  gray  blonde." 

"And"  said  the  mother,  rebuking  her  daughter  by 
this  little  emphasis  on  the  conjunction,  "  a  very  wise 
friend  of  mine  once  told  me  that  the  great  majority 
of  celebrated  persons  have  been  blue-eyed,"  and  she 
smiled  as  she  met  her  daughter's  dark  orbs. 

"  Yes,"  said  Brunette,  "  he  had  pronounced  blue 
eyes  himself,  I  suppose." 

"  I  don't  know  about  the  pronunciation  of  his  eyes," 
replied  the  mother,  dreamily,  "they  were  certainly 
blue  enough.  When  I  was  a  child  and  went  to  coun 
try  spelling  schools,  the  teacher  always  used  to  speak 
of  'putting  out'  the  words,  instead  of  pronouncing 
them.  In  that  sense,  if  '  putting  out '  is  pronouncing, 
as  my  wise  instructor  thought,  one  of  my  friend's  eyes 
was  certainly  '  pronounced,'  afterward ;  but  then, 
again,  when  it  was  pronounced,  it  ceased  to  be  blue, 
did  n't  it  ?  " 

"Mother,"  said  Brunette,  tenderly,  "if  you  had 
been  born  a  few  ages  later,  you  would  have  been  a 
great  woman.  I  never  shall  be,  but  I  'm  going  to  try 
to  earn^ny  board  and  clothes  in  this  town,  and  I  'm 


46  THE   TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 

going  to  do  it  by  writing,  if  possible.  I  don't  expect 
to  earn  much  at  first,  but  it  does  seem  to  me  that  with 
what  you  have  spent  on  my  education,  and  with  my 
knack  at  writing,  I  might  make  at  least  my  board  out 
of  my  pen  this  year." 

"  What  nonsense,  Brunette  !  "  cried  Bob.  "  People 
make  a  pen  out  of  boards,  not  board  out  of  pens. 
You  're  just  turned  round  with  writing  so  many 
verses.  I  read  the  other  day  in  a  paper,  that  it  is  n't 
a  good  plan  for  girls  to  go  to  college,  because  no 
female  brain  can  stand  the  strain  of  hard  study  ;  and 
if  you  keep  on  with  your  verses,  and  get  a  chance  to 
do  newspaper  work  too,  it  will  be  every  bit  as  bad  for 
your  brain,  as  college;  and  the  first  thing  we  know, 
we  shall  have  a  full-blown  idiot  in  the  family." 

Brunette  gasped.  "  Is  this,"  she  said,  as  soon  as 
she  could  get  her  breath,  "  is  this  the  viper  that  I 
have  been  hemming  pocket  handkerchiefs  for,  all  the 
afternoon?  This  is  what  comes  of  allowing  babes 
and  sucklings  to  read  newspapers  !  And  now,  Robert, 
do  you  gather  up  all  my  stereographs  and  put  them  in 
the  box,  and  don't  ask  for  them  again,  until  you  c<in 
be  civil.  And  remember  that  nobody  with  any  kind 
of  a  brain,  be  it  male  or  female,  likes  pert  little  boys !  " 

Brunette's  nonsensical  remarks  about  the  difficulties 
of  accepting  a  situation,  were  not  altogether  without 
foundation.  "In  order  to  accept  a  situation,"  said 
she,  as  she  started  bravely  out  on  her  quest,  "first 
find  your  situation."  She  went  systematically  about 
her  search,  and  made  thorough  work  of  it.  This  edi 
tor  had  no  vacancy ;  that  one  employed  no  women, 


ACCEPTING  A   SITUATION.  47 

excepting  in  the  composing-room ;  the  other  would 
like  her  help,  but  really  could  n't  afford  another 
assistant;  a  fourth  employed  nobody  but  college 
graduates;  (and  Brunette  thought,  with  grim  amuse 
ment,  of  some  of  the  liberally-educated  syntax  which 
she  had  noticed  disporting  itself  in  the  columns  of  his 
journal)  ;  and  a  fifth,  who  needed  no  more  help  just 
now,  consoled  her  by  being  certain  "  that  if  it  were 
generally  known  that  Miss  Smith  would  accept  a  place 
as  assistant  editor  in  a  newspaper  office,  vacancies 
would  appear  in  shoals."  The  idea  of  a  shoal  of 
vacancies  caused  Miss  Smith  to  smile  in  her  sleeve. 

But  at  last  Fate  relented,  and  she  "  accepted  "  a 
situation  in  the  Daily  Adviser  office,  a  place  in  which 
she  hoped  to  make  herself  generally  useful.  She  was 
to  attend  to  the  literary  and  miscellaneous  part  of  the 
paper ;  to  provide  for  the  funny  column ;  to  be 
responsible  for  the  book  notices,  and  look  after  the 
magazines  ;  in  case  the  local  editor  was  overworked, 
to  try  her  hand  at  reporting ;  if  the  news  editor  were 
absent,  or  ill,  to  don  his  mantle,  and  wrestle  with  the 
badly-written,  oily-smelling,  tissue-paper  telegrams ; 
and  when  the  chief  editor  was  called  away  by  busi 
ness,  to  occupy  his  place  as  a  pea  might  occupy  a 
cocoa-nut  shell.  But  Brunette  was  neither  inefficient 
nor  indolent ;  and  if  her  life  was  hard  and  laborious, 
it  was  also  useful  and  independent.  After  the  first 
trial  of  getting  accustomed  to  her  duties,  she  liked 
her  work,  and  enjoyed  the  sense  of  earning  her  own 
living.  And  Bob's  respect  for  her  grew  apace. 


VI. 

THE   MOUSE-TRAP. 

"THE  mice  are  knee-deep  in  the  pantry,"  said  Bru 
nette,  coming  out  of  that  apartment  with  an  old  hen's 
wing  in  one  hand,  and  a  dust-pan  half  full  of  crumbs 
and  litter  in  the  other. 

The  mother  was  not  surprised,  being  accustomed  to 
Brunette's  habit  of  exaggeration  under  excitement. 
"  I  know  it,"  she  replied  sadly.  "  I  can't  put  a  nameable 
thing  in  there  that  is  n't  either  run  over,  gnawed,  or 
eaten  up  outright.  I  have  to  wash  beforehand  every 
dish  I  use.  And  they  got  into  the  napkin-box  and  ate 
holes  in  three  of  those  pretty  pink  and  white  napkins 
last  week,  and  actually  chewed  out  all  the  '  puddings 
and  pastry '  pages  of  Mrs.  Shaw's  cook-book  to  make 
a  nest  —  " 

"  What  will  Mrs.  Shaw  say  ?  "  asked  Bob,  who  was 
busy  magnifying  a  mealy-bug  that  he  had  found  on 
the  oleander. 

"The  cook-book  written  by  Mrs.  Shaw,  then," 
amended  the  mother,  "  and  she  '11  say  buy  another,  but 
whatever  shall  I  do  with  'em  ?  " 

"  First  catch  your  mice,"  suggested  Bob,  under  his 
breath,  as  he  posed  the  mealy-bug  anew  with  a  pin. 

"  What  are  cats  for  ? "  asked  Brunette,  gloomily 
48 


THE   MOUSE-TKAP.  49 

eyeing  Aureus  Superbus,  who  was  boxing  a  bottle- 
cork  about  the  floor. 

"  If  that  is  a  conundrum,  I  give  it  up,"  replied  the 
mother,  at  that  moment  stepping  on  the  cork,  and, 
under  the  momentary  impression  that  it  was  the  cat's 
foot,  nearly  dislocating  her  own  vertebrae  in  trying  to 
lighten  her  weight  on  the  supposed  paw,  —  "  excepting 
to  suggest  that  they  are  for  the  purpose  of  being 
always  under  foot,"  she  added  with  mild  wrath,  as 
she  recovered  her  balance. 

"  I  know  what  cats  are  for,"  struck  in  Bob,  "  they 
are  to  sit  in  the  window  and  look  comfortable.  I 
heard  you  say  that  a  plump,  well-fed  cat  sitting  in  a 
window,  gives  a  nawful  comfortable  and  contented 
look  to  a  house.  But  Aureus  never  sits  in  the  window 
only  when  I  hold  her  there  with  both  hands,  and  then 
she  don't  look  comfortable  worth  a  cent." 

"Whatever  mother  said,  she  didn't  say  nawful," 
replied  Brunette ;  "  and  I  'd  like  to  know  how  a  cat  is 
going  to  look  comfortable  where  you  are,"  suddenly 
wheeling  over  to  the  cat  side  of  the  argument.  "  I  'd 
rather  be  a  dog  and  bay  the  moon  —  " 

"  I  don't  think  dogs  obey  the  moon  half  as  well  as 
cats  do,"  interrupted  Bob.  "  Did  you  hear  'em  last 
night?" 

"  The  cat  certainly  does  n't  seem  to  be  much  help 
against  the  mice,"  said  the  mother,  returning  to  the 
original  question.  "  We  can't  put  her  in  the  pantry  to 
catch  'em,  because  she  knocks  all  the  dishes  off  the 
shelves ;  we  can't  put  her  in  the  cellar-way  closet, 
3 


50  THE    TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 

because  she  steals  more  than  the  mice  do  ;  and  we 
can't  put  her  down  cellar,  because  you  say  she  blacks 
her  feet  in  the  coal-bin  —  " 

"  I  wonder  if  she  don't  ?  "  retorted  Brunette.  "Just 
look  at  my  antimacassar  on  the  parlor  lounge !  It  'a 
a  sight  to  behold  !  " 

"  I  thought  so  when  you  finished  it,"  agreed  the 
mother.  "  A  baggy-trowsered  boy  in  a  slouch  hat,  and 
a  short-waisted  skimp-skirted  girl  in  a  poke  bonnet, 
teetering  on  a  slab  across  a  saw-log,  with  esthetic  cat 
tails  in  the  middle  distance.  But  it  certainly  was  n't 
improved  by  black  cat-tracks  in  the  background,  I 
admit,  although  Mr.  Whistler  might  say  they  made  a 
symphony  of  it.  But  I  really  don't  see  how  the  cat 
can  be  expected  to  catch  the  mice  if  she  is  n't  allowed 
to  go  where  they  are,  and  they  can't  be  persuaded  to 
come  into  the  kitchen  in  broad  daylight  and  let  her 
catch  'em." 

"  Pshaw !  She  would  n't  catch  one  if  he  should 
come  out  and  ask  her  to,  "  retorted  Brunette. 

"  Now,  Brunette,  that  's  too  bad,"  exclaimed  indig 
nant  Bob,  "  she  has  caught  a  mouse,  with  a  bell  on, 
too." 

"  A  mouse  with  a  bell  on  !  I  can't  believe  it,"  replied 
his  sister. 

"No,  the  cat  herself  had  a  bell  on.  I  put  it  on 
myself,  so  I  could  tell  when  she  was  under  the  shed," 
said  Bob,  "  and  I  think  she  was  real  smart  to  catch  a 
mouse  while  she  had  a  bell  on,  and  it  shows  just  how 
much  sense  there  is  in  that  old  story  about  the  mice 


THE  MOUSE-TRAP.  51 

getting  together  and  planning  to  bell  the  cat  to  keep 
her  from  catching  'em.  I  don't  believe  in  fables,  any 
how,"  said  skeptical  Bob,  stoutly. 

"  What  became  of  the  mouse  she  caught  ?  "  inquired 
Brunette,  sticking  to  the  original  proposition,  and  fix 
ing  Bob  with  her  glittering  eye. 

44  The  mouse  ?  O,  I  took  him  away  from  her  and 
put  him  in  my  mouse-cage,"  answered  Bob,  blushing 
a  little,  but  still  cheerful,  "  and  he  does  nothing  but 
eat  and  eat  and  eat,  and  I  'm  afraid  he  '11  die  of  fatty 
de-what's-his-name  of  the  heart." 

"Js  it  contagious?"  asked  Brunette,  severely,  "if 
so,  I  wish  he  would,  and  give  the  disease  to  all  his 
kindred.  I  can't  sleep  nights  for  the  dancing-parties 
they  hold  in  the  walls,  and  half  my  time  goes  to  hid 
ing  things  from  them  and  clearing  up  after  them ;  and 
when  the  cat  catches  one,  by  accident,  or,  more  likely, 
when  a  specially  old  and  miserable  mouse  gets  tired 
of  living  and  walks  into  her  mouth,  why,  Bob  takes  it 
away  and  makes  a  pet  of  it !  " 

.  "  Well,"  mildly  pursued  the  mother,  hanging  up  the 
broom  in  the  cellar-way,  "  surely,  nobody  can  blame 
the  mice  for  eating  what  they  can  find,  if  nothing  hin 
ders  them ;  and  nobody  can  blame  the  cat  for  not 
catching  them  when  she  can't  get  at  'em,  or  for  not 
eating  them  when  they  are  rescued  from  her  very 
jaws.  The  real  sinner  seems  to  be  Bob." 

"  He  always  is,"  muttered  Bob,  aside. 

"  I  suggest  a  trap  to  catch  Bob,"  said  his  sister. 

"A  trap !  the  very  thing  1 "   exclaimed  the  mother, 


52  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

joyfully.   «  A  trap  won't  gnaw  things,  nor  break  dishes, 
nor  get  its  feet  black  clambering  over  the  coal  —  " 

"  Of  course  it  won't,"  said  practical  Bob,  "  who  ever 
heard  of  such  a  thing?  And  I  hope  you  '11  get  a  trap 
that  '11  catch  'em  alive,  and  then  I  '11  have  a  mate  for 
my  mouse  in  the  cage,  and  —  " 

"  And  establish  a  mouse  factory,"  interrupted  Bru 
nette.  "And  presently  have  all  the  mice  that  the 
country  needs." 

"  Let  me  see"  !  "  mused  the  mother.  "  I  used  to  have 
a  mouse-trap,  one  of  those  choking,  strangling,  hang 
man's  traps  that  caught  the  poor  things  by  the  neck 
and  suffocated  them.  I  gave  it  away  to  somebody 
when  we  moved.  Is  n't  it  funny  that  you  never  give 
away  anything  without  needing  it  afterward  ?  " 

"Nothing  but  the  mumps,"  muttered  Brunette. 

"  But,"  said  the  mother,  "  is  n't  there  a  new-fash 
ioned  trap  advertised,  that  will  catch  but  not  choke, 
scotch  but  not  kill,  cheer  but  not  inebri  —  "  She  felt 
that  she  was  running  off  the  track,  and  ended  with, 
"It  must  be  awful  to  die  for  want  of  breath." 

After  much  discussion  pro  and  con,  and  sundry 
consultations  with  the  neighbors  as  to  the  most  effect 
ual  and  merciful  kind  of  mouse-trap,  the  matter  was 
settled  by  a  magnanimous  acquaintance,  who  said  he 
had  been  greatly  annoyed  by  mice  in  his  counting- 
room,  and  kindly  volunteered  to  lend  the  family  his 
new  patent  trap;  a  splendid  affair,  shaped  like  a 
Derby  hat,  or  the  snow  hut  of  the  Esquimaux,  only  it 
was  built  of  bright  wire,  had  a  street  door  and  a  sky- 


THE  MOUSE-TRAP.  53 

light  for  the  mice  to  go  in  at,  and  another  door  for  the 
convenience  of  patting  in  bait  and  taking  out  the 
dead  bodies  of  the  mice  which  were  expected  to  go 
in  after  it.  The  entrances  were  lanes  of  horizontal 
wires  a  little  smaller  at  the  inner  ends,  and  the  mice 
were  expected  to  crowd  themselves  in  by  springing 
these  wires  a  little,  and  then  to  eat  so  much  that  they 
could  not  get  out  at  the  same  holes.  The  trap  even 
had  a  wire  ring  in  the  platform,  intimating  with  silent 
eloquence  that  its  work  of  extirpation  would  soon  be 
done,  and  then  it  could  be  hung  up  against  the  wall 
as  a  high-art  decoration,  a  sort  of  nocturne  in  steel- 
color. 

"  I  wonder  the  inventor  did  n't  light  that  trap  with 
gas,"  murmured  Brunette,  "  and  have  Sebago  put  in. 
It  lacks  nothing  else  of  all  that  cheers  and  embellishes 
civilized  life.  No  mouse  of  common  sense  will  ever 
want  to  come  out  of  it  after  he  once  gets  in." 

But  nobody  ever  had  a  chance  to  see  whether  a 
mouse  could  or  would  get  out  of  it  or  not,  since  no 
mouse  showed  the  least  disposition  to  get  in.  The 
mother,  who  believed  in  treating  borrowed  things 
with  courtesy,  carefully  cut  a  circular  piece  of  paper 
to  fit  the  floor  of  the  trap,  so  as  to  keep  it  from  being 
grease-spotted  by  the  bait,  and  then  as  carefully  depos 
ited  the  bait  (a  nice  piece  of  cheese,  bought  at  Wil 
son's  for  eighteen  cents  a  pound ),  in  the  middle  of  the 
paper,  and  placed  the  edifice  in  the  pantry  over  night. 

"  If  we  find  it  crowded  full  of  mice  in  the  morning," 


54  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

asked  she,  with  her  usual  proneness  to  borrow  trouble, 
"whatever  shall  we  do  with  'era  ?" 

"  Put  'em  in  my  cage  for  pets,"  answered  Bob. 

"Drown  'em,  trap  and  all,  and  Bob's  cage  with 
'em,"  bloodthirstily  remarked  Brunette. 

"  You  must  do  it  then,"  replied  the  mother.  "  I 
never  will  put  the  trap  under  water,  and  watch  the 
poor  things  until  they  stop  bubbling." 

But  it  was  evident  in  the  morning  that  nobody 
would  be  distressed  by  the  bubbling  of  drowning  mice 
that  day.  The  mother  rose  uncommonly  early,  and 
opened  the  pantry  door  with  bated  breath  to  examine 
the  baited  trap  before  she  had  even  started  up  the  fire. 
She  beheld  the  trap,  empty,  surrounded  by  a  circular 
windrow  of  chewed  paper.  The  mice  had  gnawed  the 
paper  on  all  sides  until  it  looked  like  a  pattern  of  a 
circular  saw,  had  drawn  it  between  the  wires  until 
they  could  reach  the  cheese,  had  devoured  the  cheese, 
held  a  dance  of  triumph  after  their  feast,  and  evidently 
departed  in  high  good  humor,  after  having  eaten  out 
the  entire  inside  works  of  a  hapless  biscuit  which  Bru 
nette  had  inadvertently  left  on  the  shelf.  The  mother 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  uttered  aloud  to  the  solitary 
kitchen,  «  Well,  I  never !  " 

In  theory,  the  trap  was  absolutely  perfect ;  in  prac 
tice,  the  family  was  soon  obliged  to  agree  that,  in  the 
words  of  Bob,  who  was  born  down  South,  "  it  was  n't 
worth  corn-shucks." 
Night  followed  night  with  the  same  result ;  the  bait 


THE   MOUSE-TRAP.  55 

was  varied  with  a  persistence  and  ingenuity  which 
would  have  humbled  Miss  Parloa  herself,  and  every 
possible  inducement  offered  to  coax  the  mice  to  enter 
the  trap.  In  vain.  They  even  seemed  to  bring  for 
age  from  remote  corners  of  the  pantry,  and  hold 
picnics  round  the  trap,  leaving  their  crumbs  there  as  a 
testimony  and  a  scorning.  Indeed,  Brunette  cuttingly 
remarked,  "  I  declare,  I  believe  this  trap  is  the  only 
spot  in.  the  house  not  infested  by  mice.  Mother,  if 
you  have  anything  which  you  wish  particularly  to 
keep  away  from  'em,  I  recommend  you  to  put  it  in 
this  trap ! " 

"  I  never  shall  get  a  mate  to  my  mouse  at  this  rate," 
said  Bob,  in  despair.  "  I  believe  it 's  because  the  trap 
is  so  new  and  stylish,  and  they  're  afraid  to  move  in. 
They  think  the  rent  is  too  high." 

After  some  self-communing  as  to  whether  it  would 
do  to  so  look  a  gift-horse,  or  a  loan-horse,  in  the 
mouth,  the  mother  ventured  to  remark  to  the  courteous 
owner,  that  for  some  reason  she  had  failed  completely 
to  catch  anything  in  his  trap.  He  laughed  loud  and 
long. 

"  Well,  I  'm  rid  of  the  trap,  anyway  !  "  he  said. 
"  I  've  had  that  set  in  a  drawer  in  my  office  three 
months,  and  never  caught  a  mouse.  In  the  first  place, 
they  ate  all  the  papers  around  it,  without  appearing 
to  notice  the  trap  at  all ;  then  as  I  persisted  in  keep 
ing  it  set  in  their  way,  they  actually  went  into  it,  ate 
the  bait,  and  went  out  again,  to  show  me  their  opin 
ion  of  the  patent.  Or,  more  likely,  they  took  it  for  a 


56 


THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 


charitable  free-lunch  place,  where  they  could  eat  at 
their  leisure,  absolutely  safe  from  cats.  I  was  very 
glad  of  a  chance  to  lend  it.  I  beg  you  won't  take  the 
trouble  to  send  it  home  again.  In  fact,  possession  is 
nine  points  of  the  law,  and  I  will  gladly  throw  in  the 
other  point,  and  make  you  a  present  of  the  trap.. 
Charmed,  I  'm  sure !  " 

"If  ever  I  have  a  house  built,"  said  Brunette,  once 
more  emerging  from  the  pantry,  with  a  dust-pan  full 
of  mouse-gnawed  paper-chips  and  the  fragments  of 
Bob's  last  ear  of  pop-corn,  "I  '11  have  it  built  on  the 
principle  of  that  trap,  keep  it  well  baited,  and  so  have 
an  establishment  entirely  mouse-proof.  Look  at  this !  " 
and  she  shook  out,  — while  fluffy  fragments  of  white 
linen  flew  around  her  like  a  stage  snow-storm,  the  cur 
rent  table-cloth,  which,  having  been  gnawed  quite 
through  its  thickness  while  it  was  folded,  now  pre 
sented  a  view  of  sixteen  holes,  eight  in  a  row,  each  as 
large  as  one's  fist,  — making  the  breadth  of  unlucky 
damask  look  like  the  front  side  of  a  pigeon-house. 
"Ill  fares  the  house  to  hastening  woes  a  prey 

Where  mice  accumulate  and  table-cloths  decay," 

she  said,  dropping  it  in  a  ragged  heap. 

"  That's  a  needless  Alexandrine,"  said  the  mother, 
with  a  face  of  dismay,  «  and  I  shall  have  to  get  one  of 
those  choking,  strangling,  suffocating,  horrible  hang- 
man's  traps,  after  all !  " 


VII. 

A   CHRISTMAS  PRESENT. 

IT  was  a  bleak  and  blowy  morning  near  Christmas, 
and  Brunette  was  on  her  way  to  her  daily  work.  It 
was  too  early  yet  for  the  ornamental  part  of  the  pop 
ulation  to  be  astir ;  the  human  butterflies  and  hum 
ming-birds  were  still  enjoying  their  beauty-sleep  ;  only 
the  working  bees  were  visible.  Mechanics,  going  to 
the  scene  of  their  day's  labor,  and  not  much  in  a  hurry 
to  arrive  there  ;  errand-boys,  trying  how  long  they 
could  be  in  passing  a  given  point ;  a  few  clean-aproned, 
white-clouded  Irish  women,  with  market-baskets ;  trim 
saleswomen,  hurrying  to  their  counters;  shop-girls, 
with  a  thimble-mark  on  the  right  middle  finger ;  and 
a  few  unsunned-looking  men-clerks,  made  up  the 
majority  of  pedestrians. 

Far  ahead,  in  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk,  Brunette 
descried  a  small  object  of  a  brownish  ginger-color, 
which  presently  she  perceived  to  be  a  little  dog. 
Everybody  who  passed  it,  either  jostled  or  jeered  at 
it,  and  the  poor  little  animal  seemed  too  much  at  a 
loss  to  make  even  an  attempt  at  getting  out  of  the 
way.  Brunette  knew  every  dog  whose  home  or  board 
ing-place  was  on  her  beat,  and  she  was  instantly  sure 
that  this  little  dog  was  a  stranger.  As  she  drew 
*  57 


58  THE   TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 

nearer,  she  perceived  that  he  was  not  only  a  stranger, 
which  was  bad  enough,  but  a  vagabond,  which  was 
worse.  He  was  a  Dandie  Dinmont  terrier,  with  the 
long,  low,  ungraceful  body  of  his  kind ;  but  he  had  a 
beautiful  head,  a  handsome,  intelligent  face,  long, 
silky  ears,  and  a  lovely  pair  of  brown,  clear,  mellow 
eyes.  His  fringy  tail  was  draggled  and  dirty ;  his 
coat  was  tangled  with  dead  leaves  and  fragments  of 
sidewalk  litter,  which  betrayed  that  he  had  spent  at 
least  one  homeless,  comfortless  night  in  some  lee 
street  corner,  where  trash  and  fallen  elm-leaves  had 
gathered  to  keep  out  of  the  wind ;  his  soft  ears  were 
rough  and  unkempt ;  and  he  was  shivering  miserably 
in  the  sharp  air.  Brunette  always  bade  good  morning 
to  all  the  dogs  she  met,  and  she  did  not  slight  this 
one. 

"  Why,  doggum,"  said  she,  "  why  do  you  sit  here  in 
the  way,  where  everybody  hits  you  ?  Go  up  by  the 
wall,  where  people  won't  step  on  your  toes." 

He  had  been  gazing  wistfully  up  and  down  the 
street,  looking  at  nothing  in  particular,  but  the  moment 
her  voice  touched  his  ear,  he  sprang  up,  put  his  dirty 
paws  against  her  dress,  and  wagged  his  disreputable 
tail,  while  his  eyes  fairly  shone  with  intelligent  and 
delighted  welcome.  Like  the  ancient  mariner,  he 
knew  instantly  to  whom  his  story  must  be  told.  Bru 
nette  conversed  with  him  a  minute,  and  passed  on. 
The  dog  followed,  as  though  he  had  been  waiting  only 
for  her. 

"  But,  doggum,"  remonstrated  she,  "  you  must  n't 


A  CHEISTMAS   PRESENT.  59 

follow  me.  Your  master  is  probably  in  one  of  these 
stores ;  you  must  wait  here  until  he  comes  out."  At 
the  same  time,  Brunette  felt  a  strong  misgiving  as  to 
the  probability  that  anybody  from  Gorham,  Scar 
borough,  or  Moderation  Mills,  was  shopping  in  Con 
gress  street  at  that  early  hour.  She  returned  to  the 
spot  where  she  first  saw  the  dog.  "  I  must  leave  you 
where  I  found  you,"  she  said,  «  I  can't  be  accused  of 
stealing  a  dog  in  this  public  manner.  Go  back !  "  she 
said,  as  with  eager  eyes  fixed  on  her  face,  he  followed 
her  every  step.  "  Go  back ! "  she  repeated,  but 
although  the  words  were  peremptory,  she  could  not 
make  the  tone  sharp  enough  to  terrify  or  detach  her 
new  friend. 

A  chivalrous  boy,  happening  to  pass  at  the  moment, 
and  seeing  her  perplexity,  gave  the  dog  a  little  kick, 
in  her  behalf,  and  that  settled  the  matter  for  the  pres 
ent.  Brunette  could  not  scold  or  threaten  a  dog 
which  had  been  kicked  for  her  sake,  and  in  her 
interest ;  so  she  said  no  more,  but  went  on  her  way, 
feeling  sure,  with  some  sinking  of  the  heart,  that  the 
dog's  nose  was  just  touching  her  skirt  behind.  When 
she  reached  the  office  door,  she  paused,  and  tried  to 
argue  with  him  anew ;  but  he  only  smiled,  and  slipped 
in  with  her.  When  he  saw  that  she  was  going  up 
stairs,  he  bounded  up  a  step  ahead  of  her,  and  waited 
^at  the  top  to  see  what  she  would  do  next,  shrinking 
close  to  her  when  she  came  up,  as  one  who  says,  "  I 
have  no  friend  but  you."  As  she  went  into  the 
library  and  seated  herself  at  her  desk,  he  gravely 


THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

observed  her,  and  perceiving  that  she  was  at  home,  he 
lay  comfortably  down  on  the  edge  of  her  dress,  with 
his  nose  between  his  paws,  and  took  a  long,  relieved 
breath,  which  said,  "My  troubles  are  all  over,  — I  am 
safe." 

All  day  he  lay  there,  apparently  sleeping,  but  occa 
sionally  waking  to  gaze  in  her  face  a  moment  with 
affectionate  eyes,  or  touch  her  hand  with  his  quiver 
ing,  sensitive  nose.  If  any  one  entered  the  room,  lie 
did  not  raise  his  head,  but  looked  up  askance,  with  a 
little  thrill  of  the  ears,  which  showed  him  to  be  keenly 
observant,  AVhen  at  last  the  day's  work  was  done, 
and  Brunette  rose  to  go,  he  was  alert  in  a  moment, 
his  eyes  bright  with  expectancy  and  interest,  and  he 
followed  her  into  the  street  like  her  shadow. 

"What  will  mother  say?"  was  the  uppermost 
thought  in  her  mind.  "How  can  I  tell  her  that  I 
have  stolen  this  dog  ?  for  that's  what  it  amounts  to. 
I  feel  precisely  like  a  thief.  I  wonder  if  I  shall  meet 
the  owner?  and  if  I  do,  what  can  I  say?"  and  poor 
Brunette  was  so  perplexed  by  her  new  treasure,  that 
she  even  tried  to  hide  herself  from  him.  It  was 
nearly  dark,  and  the  shadows  were  growing  dense; 
she  stepped  behind  a  tree-box  as  she  turned  an  abrupt 
corner,  and  held  her  garments  tightly  about  her,  that 
he  might  not  discover  her.  She  saw  him  look  about, 
for  a  moment,  then  put  his  nose  to  the  ground,  and 
come  straight  to  her  hiding-place,  wagging  his  tail 
apologetically,  as  though  saying,  "  Excuse  me  for  hav 
ing  got  out  of  your  sight  a  minute,  it  shall  not  happen 
again  !  "  And  it  did  not. 


A   CHRISTMAS   PRESENT.  61 

Arrived  at  home,  she  explained  matters  as  best  she 
could  to  the  mother,  whose  heart  melted  at  the  dog's 
friendlessness  and  evident  desire  to  make  himself 
popular.  Bob  and  he  were  friends  in  two  minutes ; 
in  fact,  the  dog  was  so  eager  to  recommend  himself 
to  his  new  acquaintances  that  he  could  hardly  stop  to 
eat  the  supper  that  he  so  evidently  needed.  After 
ward,  he  went  about  the  house  and  examined  it  criti 
cally  and  carefully,  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  just 
moved  in,  and  then,  apparently  satisfied,  took  his 
place  in  the  family  circle,  as  though  he  had  belonged 
there  a  thousand  years. 

"How  are  we  going  to  find  out  his  name?"  que 
ried  Bob.  "  Here,  doggie,  have  n't  you  got  a  card 
about  you  ?  " 

"  He  does  n't  look  as  though  he  ever  saw  a  card,  or 
a  comb  either,"  said  the  mother,  "  and  clearly  he 
has  n't  had  one  about  him  for  some  time.  Whatever 
shall  we  do  with  him?  I  can't  bear  to  turn  him  out, 
this  cold  night,  and  if  he  stays  in,  he'll  fill  the  house 
with  fleas."  And  as  though  to  corroborate  her 
icmark,  the  dog  began  to  scratch  his  ear  with  his  hind 
foot,  in  the  most  vigorous  fashion.  The  subject  was 
not  pleasant,  and  Brunette  led  the  conversation  back 
to  the  matter  of  his  name. 

"  The  only  way  I  can  suggest,  of  finding  out  his 
name,  Bob,  will  be  to  call  him  by  every  canine  name 
you  can  think  of,  and  if  you  happen  to  get  the  right 
one,  he  will  brighten  up  and  recognize  it." 

No  sooner  said  than  done.     "  Here,  Skip,  Flip,  Gyp, 


62  THE   TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 

Trip,  Snip,  Brisk,  Frisk,  Whisk,  Pedro,  Carlo,  Rollo, 
Lion,  Tiger,  Bear,  Flash,  Dash,  Pepper,  Frolic,  Fido, 
GINGER!"  called  Bob,  growing  louder  and  louder 
with  every  word,  and  clapping  his  hands,  as  he  ran  up 
and  down  the  room,  while  the  excited  dog  «  brightened 
up  and  recognized  "  every  name  he  uttered,  and  join 
ing  in  the  wild  dance,  barked  vociferously,  while  the 
r&st  of  the  family  held  their  hands  to  their  ears. 

"  Mercy  on  us  !  "  cried  Brunette ;  "  hush  !  Have  you 
been  reading  a  dog's  directory,  or  wherever  did  you 
find  all  those  names,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  But  you  told  me  to  call  him  nine  names,  and  I 
could  n't  stop  to  count." 

"I  told  you  to  call  him  ca-nine  names,  and  you 
called  him  ca-nineteen,"  said  Brunette,  with  severity. 
"But  it  's  clear  that  the  dog  does  n't  need  any  special 
name,  since  he  responded  to  every  one  of  them." 

"  It  's  the  tone  that  he  recognizes,  not  the  name," 
said  the  mother.  «  You  can  see  that  by  trying  him 
with  a  name  that  can't  possibly  belong  to  him,  and 
that  he  probably  never  heard  in  his  life.  Here,  Atha- 
nasius,  Nioodemus,  Montgomery,  Gustavus  Adolphus, 
Hieronymus,  Ichthyosaurus,  Plantagenet,  Memphre- 
magog,  Tiglath-Pileser,  Halicarnassus ! "  called  she, 
in  a  tone  that  would  wheedle  a  bird  off  a  bush.  And 
the  responsive  animal,  delighted  at  his  sudden  popu 
larity,  came  across  the  room  like  a  catapult,  and  sprang 
into  her  lap  with  a  force  that  bounced  the  breath  out 
of  her  body.  "  You  see,"  gasped  she,  "  he  does  n't 
cart*  what  we  call  him,  so  he  's  only  called  !  " 


A  CHBISTMAS   PRESENT.  63 

« Now  let  me  try,"  said  Brunette.  "  Here,  Some, 
One,  Any,  Other,  All,  Such,  Either,  Neither,  Yet, 
Nevertheless,  Notwithstanding !  "  And  the  eager  ani 
mal,  quite  beside  himself  at  so  much  attention,  vaulted 
across  the  corner  of  the  table  into  her  lap,  nearly 
upsetting  the  kerosene  lamp  in  his  progress,  and  utter 
ing  a  volley  of  barks  that  might  have  awakened  a 
Congress  street  policeman. 

"After  all,"  said  the  mother,  in  a  tone  of  voice 
which  somehow  seemed  suddenly  dull  and  changed, 
"  after  all,  what  do  we  cnre  what  his  name  is  ?  What 
difference  does  it  make  to  any  one  of  us?  Who 
started  the  question,  anyway  ?  " 

Brunette  looked  at  her  mother,  surprised  at  her 
sudden  change  of  base,  and  beheld  her  ruefully  regard 
ing  an  ugly  three-cornered  rent  in  her  dress,  a  hole 
evidently  made  by  the  dog's  sudden  onslaught. 

"  Dogs  are  always  rough  and  destructive  when  they 
try  to  be  sportive,"  said  the  frugal  woman,  "  and  pup 
pies  are  specially  mischievous.  He's  going  to  be 
advertised  to-morrow,  and  his  master  discovered," 
and  she  regarded  the  poor  animal  with  a  look  of  cold 
displeasure.  "  I  can  mend  a  worn  hole  with  equanim 
ity,"  said  she,  carefully  placing  together  the  frayed 
edges  of  the  rent,  "  but  —  " 

"  With  what  ?  "  interrupted  Bob,  opening  his  eyes, 
"  I  should  think  a  piece  like  the  dress  would  be  best." 

"  I  was  saying  that  I  can  mend  a  hole  that  has  been 
worn,  and  feel  that  I  am  really  accomplishing  some 
thing  ;  but  I  have  small  patience  in  mending  a  torn 


THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

place.  The  fact  itself  is  irritating,  the  work  seems 
altogether  unnecessary,  and  after  it  is  finished,  it 
does  n't  look  as  well  as  it  did  before.  And  this  merino 
was  to  have  lasted  me  all  winter ! " 

"Mother,"  said  Bob,  "I  have  always  noticed  that 
after  clothes  are  mended,  they  last  forever.  A  mended 
garment  is  just  like  a  cracked  dish;  it  seems  to  outlast 
dozens  of  new  ones.  And  the  doggie  did  n't  mean  to 
tear  it,  and  it  's  too  bad  to  call  him  a  puppy,  just  for 
that!  "  and  Bob  put  on  an  aggrieved  look,  as  though 
his  new  friend  had  received  a  deadly  insult. 

"  Anybody  can  see  he  's  a  puppy,  by  his  big  feet, 
and  his  — his  general  air  of  irresponsibility,"  said  the 
mother,  relenting  a  little,  as  the  dog,  from  the  vantage- 
ground  of  Brunette's  lap,  looked  back  at  her,  smiling 
widely,  with  his  thin  pink  tongue  hanging  out  of  his 
mouth  by  reason  of  his  late  violent  exercise,  and  his 
beautiful  eyes  shining  with  delight  at  everybody's 
appreciation. 

When  Brunette  went  her  nightly  round  to  fasten 
the  doors  and  windows,  the  dog  accompanied  her, 
apparently  taking  note  of  every  bolt  and  lock.  And 
when,  at  bed-time,  the  mother  spread  a  superannuated 
shawl  on  the  hearth-rug  (Bob  said  the  shawl  was 
meant  for  a  feather-bed,  but  Brunette  said  it  was  to 
keep  fleas  out  of  the  rug),  and  informed  the  dog  that 
his  bed  was  made  up,  he  took  immediate  possession, 
lying  down  at  once,  placing  his  chin  on  his  paws  — 
if  a  dog  may  be  said  to  have  a  chin  — and  casting  his 
eye  up  to  the  face  of  each  of  his  admirers,  as  who 


A  CHRISTMAS  PRESENT.  65 

should  say,  «  Now  you  just  go  to  bed,  and  I  '11  take 
care  of  the  house.  I  shall  keep  very  quiet  unless  I 
smell  mischief,—  then  you  '11  hear  barking  !  " 

And  he  kept  his  faith,  speaking  never  a  word  until, 
somewhere  about  midnight  or  after,  the  nearest  neigh 
bor  came  home  from,  probably,  a  Masonic  symposium, 
and  made  such  a  racket  with  his  latch-key,  that  the 
watchful  animal  took  the  alarm  and  began  spreading 
it  with  all  his  might,  barking,  as  Dob  afterward  said, 
« like  a  house  a-fire,"  and  bringing  the  mother  hur 
riedly  into  the  sitting-room,  in  a  wrapper  and  one 
slipper,  to  quiet  him.  As  soon  as  he  perceived  that 
she  heard  the  noise  and  understood  it,  he  lay  down 
again,  remarking,  by  means  of  his  eyes  and  tail,  "  O, 
the  fellow  is  n't  coming  here  ?  Well,  you  know  the 
tricks  and  manners  of  these  people  better  than  I  do, 
but  I  shall  learn.  I  'm  sorry  I  shouted  at  nothing. 
Go  to  bed  again,  I  'm  asleep." 

His  joy  at  meeting  the  family  next  morning,  was 
really  touching.  "I  never  saw  such  a  'fectionate 
dog,  "  remarked  Bob,  "  he  's  all  over  everybody  at 
once."  The  happy  creature  frolicked,  and  rolled,  and 
whined,  and  barked,  and  whenever  a  hand  or  a  face 
came  within  his  reach,  he  kissed  it  with  the  warmest 
and  juiciest  of  kisses. 

u  O  mother,"  pleaded  Bob,  quite  overcome  by  these 
demonstrations,  "  why  can't  we  keep  him?  I'll  shut 
the  cat  out-doors,  so  they  need  n't  quarrel,  or  I  '11  give 
the  cat  away  altogether." 

"That  would  be  the  best  method  of   giving    her 


66  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

away,"    remarked    Brunette.      "I  doubt  if    anybody 
would  accept  a  cat  by  instalments." 

"  I  'in  talking  to  mother,"  said  Bob  severely.  "  And 
I  '11  give  up  my  pet  mouse  in  the  cage,  and  I  won't 
ask  for  any  more  pets,  or  for  fire-crackers,  or  any 
thing  !  Do  let 's  keep  him  !  " 

"  He  's  a  nice  doggie,"  said  Brunette,  placidly,  "  but 
I  really  don't  see  how  he  's  going  to  answer  for  fire 
crackers,  when  Fourth  of  July  conies.  And  as  for 
disposing  of  the  cat,  that  would  leave  a  hiatus  in  the 
family  arrangements.  As  it  is,  we  have  a  mouse  to 
annoy  the  family,  a  cat  to  terrify  the  mouse,  a  dog  to 
worry  the  cat,  a  boy  to  bully  the  dog  —  " 

"  And  a  girl  to  badger  the  boy,"  interrupted  Bob, 
"  and  mother,  I  wish  you  'd  manage  the  girl,  and  keep 
her  from  making  game  of  me  all  the  time.  But  why 
can't  we  keep  the  dog?  What  fun  we  could  have 
together !  " 

"  In  the  first  place,"  said  the  mother,  "  with  you  at 
school,  and  Brunette  at  the  office,  he  would  n't  get 
exercise  enough  to  keep  him  in  health.  Then  we 
have  no  kennel  for  him.  Then  he  would  presently  be 
running  away,  and  somebody  would  have  to  hunt  him 
up.  Then  we  could  never  leave  the  house  for  a  week 
alone.  And  then  we  should  have  to  pay  a  tax  on  him, 
and  buy  him  a  collar.  And,  last  and  best  reason  of 
all,  he  is  n't  ours." 

"True,"  said  Brunette,  "  Jhad  forgotten  that,  too. 
Somebody,  somewhere,  is  probably  hunting  for  him 
this  minute,  and  calling  him  by  some  name  that  we 


A  CHEISTMAS  PBESENT.  67 

have  n't  thought  of.    Here,  Towscr,  Bruiser,  Caesar, 
why  won't  you  tell  what  your  name  is  ?  " 

Much  as  the  dog  was  pleased  with  all  three  of  his 
new  friends,  he  evidently  considered  Brunette  his 
special  charge.  He  watched  her  with  keen  interest  as 
she  prepared  for  her  daily  departure,  and  as  she  went 
out,  bounded  ahead  with  a  joyful  bark,  and  followed 
her  closely  every  step  of  the  way.  Arrived  at  her 
desk,  he  lay  down  at  her  feet  as  before,  and  all  day 
long,  at  every  odd  minute,  Brunette  found  herself  con 
tinually  querying,  "What  shall  I  do  with  him?" 

After  the  paper  went  to  press,  the  chief  editor  came 
into  the  library  to  give  some  directions  about  to-mor 
row's  work,  and  a  bright  thought  occurred  to  Brunette. 
She  rose  with  a  bow,  and  said,  with  perfect  gravity  : 

"It  is  the  happy  Christmas-time,  the  era  of  good 
wishes,  good  feeling  and  good  gifts.  It  is  eminently 
fitting  that  I  should  present  to  my  employer  some 
token  of  my  respect  and  esteem.  Allow  me,  then,  to 
present  to  you  all  my  right,  title,  and  interest  in  this 
excellent  and  valuable  animal,  the  only  Dandie  Din- 
mont  in  town.  The  gift  may  not  be  commensurate 
with  the  occasion,  but  it  is  all  I  have  to  give.  Angels 
could  know  more,  perhaps;  but  they  could  n't  give 
more  freely." 

She  had  only  intended  a  solemn  kind  of  joke,  but 
to  her  amazement,  the  editor  promptly  accepted  her 
testimonial,  expressing  his  gratitude  and  pleasure,  and 
stooping  to  caress  his  prize.  The  dog  licked  his  hand 


68 


THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 


with  effusion,  and  seemed  to  understand  the  situation 
at  once. 

"  I  must  say  that  there  is  one  drawback  about  the 
gift,"  admitted  Brunette,  as  an  unpleasant  contingency 
occurred  to  her,  « the  dog  is  properly  the  subject  of 
an  advertisement  in  the  '  Lost  and  Found  '  column.  I 
was  going  to  invest  a  cent  a  line  in  advertising  him> 
to-morrow.  I  found  him,  or  rather,  he  discovered  me 
in  the  street,  the  day  after  the  last  English  steamer 
sailed.  As  the  sort  of  dog  is  not  common  here,  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  he  came  on  shore  with  some 
body  from  that  steamer,  and  got  lost,  being  young, 
and  unaccustomed  to  foreign  travel.  But  he  has  fol 
lowed  me  to  and  fro  three  times,  and  nobody  claims 
him,  nor  does  he  try  to  find  anybody,  or  haunt  any 
special  place.  But  I  can't  give  a  warranty  with  him, 
only  a  quitclaim." 

When  she  left  the  room,  the  dog  rose  and  looked  at 
her,  but  when  she  said,  "  No,  this  is  your  home  now, 
and  here  is  your  master,"  he  kissed  her  hand,  and  then 
lay  down  contentedly  at  the  feet  of  his  new  proprie 
tor,  apparently  understanding  the  arrangement  and 
agreeing  to  it. 

He  was  duly  advertised,  next  day,  and  e  o  d  i  s  t  f , 
but  nothing  came  of  it.  His  home,  thereafter,  was 
the  office.  He  was  called  Toby,  and  had  the  freedom 
of  the  establishment,  and  a  rug  for  a  bed  in  the 
library.  He  still  loved  Brunette,  but  she  became  the 
secondary  object  in  his  heart.  Sometimes  he  would 


A  CHRISTMAS   PKESENT.  69 

go  home  with  her  at  evening,  and  return  after  making 
a  dignified  call.  But  he  would  never  remain  away 
from  the  office  over  night,  unless  his  master  was  out  of 
town.  Then  he  would  attend  Brunette  home,  and 
defend  her  castle  with  all  his  first  enthusiasm.  Quite 
frequently,  too,  he  would  start  off  alone,  when  he  felt 
that  he  could  leave  the  office  business,  and  go  up-town 
to  have  a  game  of  romps  with  Bob  and  his  playmates. 
In  fact,  Bob  declared  that  Toby  could  play  hop- scotch 
as  well  as  any  of  the  boys,  and  he  believed,  for  his 
part,  that  Toby  was  a  hop-Scotch  terrier. 


VIII. 

THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

"MOTHER!"  said  Brunette,  at  the  tea-table  one 
night,  "  I  am  growing  popular.  They  say  a  prophet 
is  never  honored  in  his  own  country,  but  I  have  actu 
ally  been  invited  to  join  a  literary  society  !  " 

"Indeed!  and  what  are  the  advantages?"  asked 
her  mother. 

"  Oh,  the  privilege  of  complimenting  and  being  com 
plimented  is  one,  I  suppose,"  said  irreverent  Brunette, 
taking  another  biscuit,  "  but  after  writing  and  reading 
all  day,  I  'd  rather  stay  at  home  evenings,  I  believe. 
Besides,  I  earn  so  many  compliments  from  my  own 
family  that  —  " 

"  Why  can't  we  have  a  little  literary  society  of  our 
own?"  suddenly  asked  the  mother.  "Now  that  you 
are  accustomed  to  your  office  work,  you  ought  to  have 
something  to  read  to  us  nearly  every  evening.  And  I 
don't  want  to  be  always  put  off  with  verses;  I  want  to 
hear  some  of  your  reports,  and  condensations,  and 
local  and  miscellaneous  articles,  and  —  " 

"  Hear  her,  ye  powers  that  smile !  "  exclaimed  Bru 
nette,  casting  her  eyes  tragically  upward,  "she 
does  n't  want  to  be  put  off  with  pound-cake,  she 
wants  corn-bread,  and  tripe  and  onions!  And  what 
70 


THE  THIANGULAE   SOCIETY.  71 

kind  of  a  literary  society  would  it  be,  with  one  mem 
ber  doing  all  the  writing  and  reading  ?  It  would  be 
like  '  a  government  by  the  people,'  with  more  than 
half  the  people  left  out  —  it  is  n't  fair  play." 

"Well,  Bob  and  I  have  each  a  scrap-book  from 
which  we  could  make  selections ;  and  too,  I  am  an 
excellent  listener.  1  take  it  there  will  J>e  a  good  deal 
of  listening  to  be  done.  They  also  serve,  who  only 
sit  and  —  " 

"  Criticise,"  broke  in  Brunette.  "  Well,  I  agree.  I 
see  in  the  distance,  a  chance  to  bring  before  a  select 
audience,  fit  though  few,  the  waiting  pages  of  my 
three-volume  story." 

"  Why  can't  we  begin  right  away  ? "  asked  Bob, 
who,  like  most  very  young  persons,  believed  in  "  no 
time  like  the  present,"  when  anything  new  was  in 
prospect. 

'•  I  never  have  belonged  to  a  mutual  admiration 
society,"  said  Brunette,  "and  a  gentleman  who  admit 
ted  that  he  was  a  backsliding  member  of  one,  was 
saying  to  me  —  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  gentleman  said  he 
was  a  member  of  a  mutual  admiration  society  ?  "  asked 
the  mother,  smiling. 

"  Oli,  no,  he  called  it  a  literary  society ;  there  arc 
several  in  town,  and  they  are  said  to  be  excellent  in 
their  influence  and  associations  ;  but  he  said  they  had 
their  disagreeable  side,  too.  That  after  awhile,  the 
showier  parts  of  the  work —  the  articles  written,  and 
read,  and  commented  on  —  were  all  done  by  a  few 


72  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

persons,  and  the  rest  of  the  members  found  themselves 
mere  wall-flowers,  relegated  to  the  necessary,  but  in 
no  way  specially  creditable  duty  of  sitting  about  and 
seeing  other  people  distinguish  themselves.  And 
from  the  fact  that  he  had  left  the  society,  I  judge  that 
he  had  played  audience  as  long  as  he  considered  it  his 
duty." 

"  Well,  we  shall  have  no  jealousies  of  that  sort  in 
our  society,"  said  the  mother ;  u  our  trouble  will  be 
that  we  are  so  few  and  so  fond  of  each  other  that  we 
shall  not  feel  a  sufficient  spirit  of  rivalry  to  keep  up 
our  interest." 

"  Our  meetings  will  have  several  advantages,"  said 
Brunette.  "They  will  require  no  worry  of  dressing 
and  going  out  in  the  evening ;  they  will  cost  nothing ; 
we  can  defer  them  without  trouble  whenever  it  is 
necessary ;  and  they  will  be  quite  independent  of  the 
weather.  What  shall  we  call  our  club  ?  " 

"And  we  shall  need  no  constitution  or  by-laws,  and 
hardly  a  name,  since  our  doings  will  not  be  adver 
tised,"  said  the  mother. 

"  But  we  must  have  a  name,"  said  Bob.  "  Let  's 
call  it  the  Triangular  Literary  Society,  and  begin 
to-night." 

"  Now  I  want  to  say,"  said  the  cautious  mother, 
after  tea  was  over,  as  the  members  of  the  home  liter 
ary  society  gathered  around  three  sides  of  the  table 

there  being  only  three  members,  it  was  impossible  to 
occupy  the  fourth  side  —  "I  want  to  say  that  I  do 
not  wish  to  be  understood  as  endorsing  everything 


THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY.  73 

that  I  have  in  my  scrap-book.  Endorsing  it  as  excel 
lent,  or  as  a  sample  of  my  own  best  taste  and  judg 
ment,  I  mean.  Some  of  the  articles  I  have  included 
because  of  their  oddity,  or  because  I  knew  the  writer, 
or  because  I  have  been  in  the  place  described,  or 
seen  the  subjects,  or  sometimes,  because  people  have 
given  me  the  cuttings,  and  it  is  more  convenient  to 
have  them  in  a  book  than  on  the  mantel-shelf,  in  the 
match-box,  or  in  the  sewing-machine  drawer."  And 
she  looked  pleasantly  across  at  Bob,  whose  slips  were 
often  tossing  about  the  house  for  days,  before  being 
anchored  in  his  book. 

"  And  I  suppose  Bob  will  have  the  same  excuse  for 
his  contributions  to  the  general  entertainment,"  said 
Brunette,  "  so  I  shall  be  the  only  responsible  party  ?  " 

"  Well,  of  course  you  '11  be  responsible  for  your 
own  productions,"  said  the  mother. 

"  But,  luckily,  this  is  so  free  a  country  that  I  can 
have  a  scrap-book  too,"  said  Brunette.  "And  when 
I  have  doubts  about  the  reception  of  an  article,  I  can 
just  credit  it  to  my  scrap-book." 

"  You  can  never  mislead  us  in  that  way.  I  should 
recognize  any  article  of  yours,  prose  or  verse,  wher 
ever  I  might  see  it." 

"  We  '11  see,"  said  Brunette.  "  But  who  is  the  old 
est  member  of  this  club  ?  The  oldest  reads  first." 

"  Well,  I  'm  the  nearest  white-headed,"  volunteered 
Bob.     But  no  one  noticed  his  remark,  and  the  mother 
opened   her   book,   and  re°.d.   the  first   article    which 
caught  her  eye. 
4 


74  THE  TKIANGULAB,   SOCIETY. 

THE   DERWENT  DUCKS. 
Through  the  verdurous  valleys  of  Derbyshire 

Flows  the  pretty  Derwent  river, 
Quiet  and  serious,  slow  and  clear, 
While  hazel  and  beech-sprays,  drooping  near, 

To  its  music  dance  and  quiver; 

Through  bosky  shadows  and  banks  of  moss, 

Lazily,  softly  slipping; 
So  narrow  its  channel  that  one  may  toss 
With  little  effort,  a  pebble  across, 

And  see  where  it  ceases  skipping. 

Steep  hills  rise  sharply  on  either  hand, 

And  nestling  in  greenest  hollows 
Clusters  of  small  stone  houses  stand, 
Half -burrow,  half -nest,  like  the  quaintly-planned 
Homes  of  the  queer  bank-swallows. 

So  old,  no  doubt  they  were  occupied 

In  the  times  of  torch  and  martyr; 
They  seem  grown  into  the  slope's  steep  side, — 
And  terraces,  narrow  and  walled,  divide 
The  town  into  definite  strata. 

I  doubt  if  the  folk  in  the  upper  row 

Are  better  than  those  below  it; 
But  if  stronger  reason  for  high  and  low 
Ever  existed,  surely  no 

History  lives  to  show  it. 

Beneath,  with  a  look  of  calm  content 

And  a  slow  and  slumberous  motion, 
The  quiet  tide  of  the  fair  Derwent 
Kolls  on,  to  join  with  Ihe  broader  Trent, 
In  its  search  for  the  Gcjman  ocean. 


THE  TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY.  75 

Looking  down  from  my  ivied  nest, 

In  the  misty  autumn  weather, 
I  watched  two  ducks  on  the  river's  breast, 
Side  by  side  in  their  peaceful  quest 

Sailing  for  days  together. 

Their  lives  so  happy  and  innocent, 

Into, the  past  have  drifted; 

They  have  been  and  are  gone — but  where  Derwent 
Lazily  eddies  in  cool  content, 

The  secret  is  still  unsifted. 

They  were  white  and  fair  as  the  snow's  first  flake, 
And  their  necks  were  smooth  and  supple ; 

(I  call  them  ducks  for  convenience's  sake, 

But  one  was  a  duck,  and  one  a  drake, 
And  the  two  were  a  pretty  couple.) 

When  oft  at  night  through  the  shadows  brown, 

Of  autumn's  mild  forewarning, 
I  looked  from  my  lofty  window  down 
On  the  mossy  roofs  of  the  sleepy  town, 

And  bade  them  adieu  till  morning  — 

I  saw  them  dimly,  two  shapes  of  snow, 

On  the  darkness  of  the  waters, 
Sailing  sociably  to  and  fro, 
As  loth  to  paddle  ashore  and  go 

Home  to  their  sleeping  quarters. 

And  when,  as  soon  as  the  daylight  came, 

I  looked  for  them  down  the  river, 
I  found  them  floating  there  all  the  same, 
As  though  night  were  nothing,  and  time  a  name, 
And  they  had  been  there  forever. 


76  THE  TEIANGULAE   SOCIETY. 

(In  this  dull  town,  which  is  sure  to  be 

Rainy,  foggy  or  muddy 
For  two  whole  days  out  of  every  three,  — 
There  »s  really  so  very  little  to  see 
That  these  two  lovers  became  to  me 

A  most  absorbing  study.) 

At  last  on  a  morning  chill  and  gray, 

One  feathery  sailor  only 
Breasted  the  waves  at  break  of  day, 
Floating  about  in  an  aimless  way, 

Silent,  distraught  and  lonely. 

And  day  after  day  went  by,  until 

A  week  had  dawned  and  departed, 
But  the  lost  one  came  not,  and  sorrowing  still 
TlTe  widower  followed  his  waning  will, 
Languid  and  heavy-hearted. 

But  one  fair  morning  no  eye  descried 

The  wanderer  unattended; 
No  white  neck  parted  the  limpid  tide; 
No  fond  hearts  floated  there,  side  by  side 

The  idyl  was  done  and  ended! 

On  half  my  story  — perhaps  two-thirds  — 
Do  doubt  and  mystery  hover, 

Since  what  became  of  those  two  fond  birds 

I  cannot  put  into  fitting  words, 
For  I  never  could  discover. 

Did  they  die,  I  wonder  and  ask  in  vain, 
In  the  under  world  or  the  upper  ? 

Did  they  dive,  and  fail  to  come  up  again  ? 

Did  they  sicken  and  perish,  or  were  they  slain 
For  somebody's  Sunday  supper  ? 


THE  TKIANGULAR    SOCIETY.  77 

I  never  shall  know  how  their  lives  were  rent 

And  their  true  hearts  reft  and  broken 
After  their  summer  of  calm  content  — 
The  doom  of  the  ducks  on  the  dim  Derwent 
Must  always  remain  unspoken! 

"  Well,  what  became  of  'em  ?  "  asked  Bob,  discon 
tentedly.  "  Why  don't  it  tell  what  became  of  'em  ?  " 

"  Because  the  person  who  wrote  the  verses  appar 
ently  did  n't  know,"  replied  his  mother. 

"  Well,  I  wish  people  would  n't  try  to  tell  stories 
till  they  know  the  whole  of  'em,"  said  Bob.  "  I  won't 
have  anything  in  my  book  that  ends  right  in  the  air, 
like  —  like  Bunker  Hill  monument,"  concluded  he, 
rather  distrustful  of  his  simile. 

"  Or  the  Observatory,"  suggested  his  locally-inclined 
sister ;  "  but  where  else  should  they  end  ?  You 
would  n't  have  either  of  those  celebrated  edifices  turn 
over  at  the  top  and  grow  down  into  the  ground  again, 
like  a  walking  fern,  or  a  banian-tree,  would  you  ?  That 
pattern  might  do  for  a  triumphal  arch,  but  not  —  " 

"  Don't  worry  me  so,"  said  Bob,  discomfited  by  his 
sister's  raillery.  "  I  only  meant  that  I  don't  like  to 
have  all  the  trouble  of  reading  a  story,  and  then  find 
that  I  must  make  all  the  hardest  part  of  it  myself. 
Anybody  can  begin  a  story.  I  've  begun  dozens  of 
'em.  The  job  is  to  finish  'em." 

"  But  Bob,"  said  his  mother,  "  nobody's  story  ends 
until  he  or  she  dies.  You  would  n't  have  all  stories 
end  with  a  funeral,  would  you? " 


78  THE  TEIANGULAB   SOCIETY. 

"  The  ducks  might  as  well  have  died  comfortably," 
persisted  Bob,  "  as  to  have  disappeared  in  that  dread 
ful  way.  I  should  feel  easier  about  them,  if  I  knew 
they  were  dead.  Now,  Brunette,  it  's  your  turn  to 
read." 

"  Mother  wanted  to  hear  some  of  my  prose  work," 
said  Brunette,  "  and  so  I  will  read  an  article  that  I 
have  just  finished  for  the  newspaper." 

"  Well,  I  hope  it  is  n't  melancholy,"  said  Bob  — 
"  so  many  of  your  articles  have  a  melancholy  tang  — 
especially  your  verses." 

"I  don't  think  I  have  put  any  'tang'  of  melan 
choly  in  this,"  answered  she,  "  but  you  shall  judge  for 
yourself,  Bob." 

THE  COCKROACH. 

The  lark  has  long  enjoyed  a  monopoly  of  praise  for 
early  rising;  the  bee  is  the  stereotyped  pattern  of  dili 
gence,  and  the  ant  has  been  quoted  for  industry  and  busi 
ness  habits  ever  since  the  days  of  Solomon ;  but  all  with 
manifest  injustice,  since  neither  of  them,  in  either  par 
ticular,  begins  to  approach  the  cockroach,  who,  by  some 
unfairness  of  fate,  has  never  been  set  up  as  an  example 
for  youth,  or  a  pattern  of  any  shining  virtue.  That  he 
distances  the  lark  in  early  rising,  is  proved  by  the  fact 
that  he  bestirs  himself  at  a  quarter  before  four  in  the 
morning,  works  all  day  long  and  into  the  night,  and  goes 
to  bed  at  forty-five  minutes  past  three.  The  palm  for 
getting  up  early  surely  belongs  to  him;  but  as  he  does 
not,  like  the  lark,  make  it  a  point  to  sing  while  he  is  ris 
ing,  perhaps  the  fact  is  not  generally  noticed.  The  fact 


THE  TKIANGULAB   SOCIETY.  79 

that  he  does  not  receive  the  praise  he  deserves  on  this 
score,  can  only  be  accounted  for  on  the  extremely  inade 
quate  plea  that  his  name  is  not  euphonious.  Nobody 
wants  to  say: 

"  Kise  with  the  cockroach,  and  with  the  cockroach  to  bed  —  " 
and  there  would  be  a  similar  prejudice  against  writing 

"  How  doth  the  little  busy  cockroach 
Improve  each  shining  hour  —  " 

and  if  the  wisest  of  kingly  counsellors  had  been  reported 
as  saying: 

"Go  to  the  cockroach,  thou  sluggard;  consider  his  ways  and 
be  wise,"  — 

his  remark  would  not  be  half  so  often  quoted  in  copy 
books,  and  in  the  addresses  of  school  superintendents. 
It  seems  unjust  that  the  cockroach  should  be  made  to 
suffer  for  his  name  ;  a  name  that  he  not  only  did  not  sug 
gest  or  invent,  —  that,  so  far  as  can  be  gathered  from  him, 
he  never  even  consented  to,  but  which  was  probably 
thrust  upon  him  by  some  malicious  entomologist. 

Yet  suffer  he  does,  if  the  deprivation  of  praise  properly 
due  is  a  wrong.  For  surely  the  cockroach,  considering 
his  persevering  habits,  his  methodical  ways,  his  untiring 
industry,  his  constancy  through  adversity,  his  patience 
under  persecution,  and  his  uncomplaining  adaptability  to 
circumstances,  merits  greater  popularity  and  quotation 
than  any  other  known  insect.  Bruce  apostrophized  a 
persevering  spider;  Sir  John  Lubbock  has  made  himself 
famous  by  his  intimacy  with  and  admiration  of  ants ;  an 
old  poet  identified  his  name  with  that  of  a  "  busy,  curi 
ous,  thirsty  fly";  but  who  has  sounded  the  praises  of  the 
cockroach  ?  Yet  no  spider  was  ever  so  persistent,  no  ant 
ever  showed  half  such  diabolical  intelligence,  no  fly  was 


80  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

ever  so  busy,  curious,  or  thirsty  as  he.  But  nobody 
writes  stanzas  about  him.  To  be  sure,  his  name  does  not 
lend  itself  kindly  to  verse: 

"  Busy,  curious,  thirsty  cockroach, 
Drink  with  me,  and  drink  as  I "  — 

would  never  do,  since  it  utterly  refuses  to  favor  either 
rhyme  or  measure.  Another  objection,  though  hardly 
worth  mention,  might  be  that  no  poet  would  ever  think 
of  inviting  a  cockroach  to  drink  with  him — though 
heaven  knows  some  poets  have  not  been  very  particular 
in  boon  companions. 

The  cockroach  is  said  by  the  oldest  inhabitant,  to  have 
reached  Portland  by  water  — to  have  been  introduced 
from  on  ship-board  to  a  public  house  much  frequented  by 
sailors,  and  thence  to  have  spread  through  the  city. 
Being  thoroughly  public-spirited,  he  is  believed  to  be 
rather  shy  of  private  residences,  though  he  refuses  him 
self  to  give  the  reason. 

But  he  abounds  in  cheap  boarding-houses,  he  flourishes 
in  store  basements,  he  luxuriates  in  low-priced  restau 
rants,  and  he  fairly  revels  in  a  printing-office  —  and  it  is 
chiefly  with  his  tricks,  manners  and  customs  in  this  lat 
ter  locality  that  this  record  deals.  Here  he  is  at  home 

for  he  delights  in  piles  of  waste  paper,  he  dotes  on  wide 
floor-cracks,  half-filled  with  trash,  old  quads,  match- 
stumps  and  dust,  he  enjoys  getting  stuck  on  the  proof- 
rollers,  he  finds  comfort  in  crawling  over  the  cheap  sta 
tionery  in  the  editor's  desk-drawers,  and  takes  pleasure 
in  packing  himself  away  between  rarely-used  books.  In 
a  sanctum  he  feels  safest  between  the  Bible  and  a  volume 
of  patent-office  reports.  lie  scampers  on  the  editorial 
table,  he  holds  meetings  in  the  drawers,  and  when  they 
are  opened  suddenly,  he  scurries  by  dozens  under  the 


THE  TRIANGULAR  SOCIETY.  81 

papers,  and  pretends  he  is  n't  there,  or  overflows  the 
edge  and  drops  down  on  the  floor  to  ensconce  himself  in 
a  crack,  or  burrow  in  the  contents  of  the  waste-basket. 

But  the  height  of  his  ambition  is  reached  when  he 
manages  to  find  the  inkstand  left  unstopped,  and  suc 
ceeds  in  drowning  himself  in  the  ink.  The  next  time  a 
pen  is  dipped  therein,  it  is  sure  to  pierce  his  thorax,  and 
he  is  unwittingly  drawn  forth  on  the  pen  point  and 
deposited  on  the  fair  white  sheet  of  paper,  a  spectacle 
for  gods  and  men,  yet  with  an  expression  of  gratified 
vanity  on  his  countenance  which  is  specially  exasperat 
ing  to  the  angler.  He  likes  almost  as  well,  however,  to 
get  into  the  mucilage-glass,  where,  as  mucilage  is  never 
applied  with  a  pen,  excepting  in  cases  of  great  absence 
of  mind,  he  is  pretty  sure  to  remain,  like  a  fly  in  amber, 
until  the  proprietor,  disgusted  with  the  appearance  of  his 
dishevelled  legs,  empties  the  whole  thing  out  at  the  back 
window,  and  fills  it  afresh  from  the  bottle. 

A  remarkable  peculiarity  of  the  creature,  and  one 
which  makes  him  a  calamity  in  a  newspaper  office,  is  his 
appetite  for  new  books.  Old  standard  works  which  have 
been  smoked  and  seasoned  for  years  on  the  library 
shelves,  he  never  touches;  but  every  new  book  he 
devours  with  an  insatiable  appetite  and  an  unbounded 
stomach.  He  is  not  in  the  least  difficult  about  his  mental 
pabulum,  but  attacks  alike  history,  classics,  travels, 
school-books,  and  even  volumes  of  verses,  and  every 
other  new  book,  which  comes  into  a  newspaper  office. 
Not  that  he  eats  the  paper  or  the  ink;  but  he  goes  over 
the  cover  like  an  army  of  locusts,  gnawing  off  the  sur 
face  and  destroying  the  color,  until  the  volume  looks  as 
though  it  had  had  a  malignant  form  of  small-pox,  and  no 
art  can  ever  thereafter  restore  its  complexion. 
4* 


THE  TEIANGULAE   SOCIETY. 

It  was  said  with  confidence  during  the  late  civil  war, 
that  up  to  the  beginning  thereof,  nobody  had  ever  seen  a 
dead  mule.  It  may  have  been  true;  but  it  is  probable 
that  up  to  the  present  date,  nobody  ever  knew  a  roach  to 
die  in  the  course  of  nature,  unhelped  by  premature 
squelching  of  one  sort  or  another.  True,  his  shreddy 
remains  may  sometimes  be  seen  on  the  floor,  or  adhering 
to  the  cover  of  a  book;  but  these  are  deaths  by  violence  — 
the  pressure  of  a  vindictive  foot,  or  the  heedless  or 
vicious  slamming  down  of  a  heavy  volume.  It  is  plain 
that  the  roach  has  a  much  better  constitution  than  the 
mule,  although  his  ears  are  not  so  long  in  the  land. 

Yain  are  the  devices  of  men  against  the  cockroach's 
occupation  of  premises  where  he  has  once  made  up  his 
mind  to  settle.  Vainly  the  newspaper  man  searches  the 
columns  of  domestic  recipes  in  the  rural  prints  —  which 
have  an  ingenious  way  of  publishing  cook-books  as 
serials,  in  a  dearth  of  local  news  —  to  find  some  effectual 
method  of  destroying  cockroaches.  Methods  there  are 
to  be  sure,  by  the  score,  but  not  one  of  them  convinces 
the  incredulous  cockroach,  or  the  newspaper  man  who 
tries  it.  The  confident  insect  smiles  on  Paris  green  as 
gentle  patience  smiles  on  pain  in  the  psalm,  —  and  tracks 
it  saucily  all  over  the  envelopes  which  he  delights  to 
promenade  on;  he  turns  up  his  nose  at  insect-powder, 
having  no  fear  of  powder  that  is  unaccompanied  by  shot; 
he  contemns  borax,  alum,  salt,  lime  and  cucumber-par 
ings,  notwithstanding  the  rural  papers  declare  that  either 
will  oust  him;  he  laughs  at  all  forms  of  tobacco,  and 
even  chews  a  little  himself,  sometimes,  just  to  show  that 
it  is  not  offensive  to  him ;  he  snuffs  up  camphor  afar  off, 
as  the  war-horse  smelleth  the  battle,  and  hurries  to  fling 
himself  into  the  midst  thereof;  and  when  some  over- 


THE  TEIANGULAR   SOCIETY.  83 

confident  soul  thinks  to  flank  him  with  chunks  of  carbolic 
soap,  he  covers  his  enemy  with  confusion  by  being  dis 
covered  next  morning,  sitting  calmly  on  the  largest  piece, 
pleasantly  vibrating  his  antenme,  as  one  who  should  say, 
"Good  wholesome  odor,  is  n't  it?  unpleasant  to  some 
folks,  but  I  always  rather  liked  it!  " 

Somebody  suggests  kerosene  oil  as  a  means  of  con 
founding  him;  another  mentions  turpentine,  and  a  third 
recommends  pennyroyal;  but  a  hundred  such  scents 
make  no  dolor  for  him.  He  walks  among  them  undis 
mayed,  pausing  occasionally  to  smooth  his  feelers  with 
his  forelegs,  as  if  remarking,  "  Bather  discursive  in  per 
fumes,  these  people,  —  but  if  they  can  stand  it,  I  can!  " 
Calcined  plaster  is  recommended,  but  the  cockroach 
accepts  it  as  a  new  but  in  no  wise  alarming  dispensation 
of  weather,  and  even  wears  a  little  of  it  on  his  whiskers 
to  show  that  he  bears  no  hardness.  Indeed  it  may  be 
said  of  the  cockroach  as  of  some  vermin  with  fewer  legs, 
that  his  amiability  amounts  to  a  positive  vice. 

It  has  sometimes  been  remarked,  and  with  more  truth 
than  the  philanthropist  likes  to  admit  —  that  the  best 
people  are  not  often  the  most  popular;  and  by  a  similar 
freak  of  fate,  the  cockroach,  though  possessing  a  greater 
number  of  the  cardinal  virtues  than  the  average  Chris 
tian,  is  regarded  with  dislike  and  aversion.  His  excel 
lent  attributes  of  patience,  temperance,  discretion, 
silence,  and  ability  to  live  on  the  shortest  commons,  cer 
tainly  ought  to  endear  him  especially  to  the  newspaper 
fraternity,  whose  whole  fortune  generally  consists  of 
these  admirable  qualities;  but  by  a  strange  paradox,  in 
no  place  is  the  cockroach  more  contemned  and  perse 
cuted  than  in  editorial  rooms.  He  makes  but  an  unprof 
itable  journey  who  carries  owls  to  Athens. 


84  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Probably  from  the  tremendous  vitality,  ths  everlasting 
vigor  and  the  iron  constitution  of  the  cockroach,  his 
uninterrupted  health,  his  long  life,  his  contempt  for 
poisons,  and  his  freedom  from  all  the  thousand  ills  which 
other  creatures  are  heir  to,  arose  the  proverbial  compar 
ison  which  has  long  been  a  puzzle  to  so  many  curious 
minds,  "  As  sound  as  a  roach." 

Considering  his  fondness  for  paste  and  book  covers,  it 
is  astonishing  how  little  gross  material  there  is  about 
even  the  most  corpulent  of  his  kind.  Step  on  him,  and 

you  hear  a  loud  crack;  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  hears  it, 

if  he  does,  he  knows  it  is  the  crack  of  his  doom. 
Remove  your  foot,  and  only  a  few  brown  fibres  and 
a  tangle  of  thready  legs  remain,  as  all  that  was  mortal  of 
the  cockroach.  Numbers  of  his  family  meet  their  fate 
in  this  way;  numbers  more  are  destroyed  by  the  office 
dog,  who,  in  the  absence  of  other  game,  frequently 
catches  them  at  a  disadvantage,  far  from  a  friendly  crack, 
and  pounds  them  to  death  with  his  clumsy  paws. 

But  although  these  and  other  malign  influences  sweep 
off  many  scattering  individuals,  on  the  whole  few  die  and 
none  resign,  as  Gen.  Jackson  acutely  remarked  concern 
ing  other  office-holders;  and  when  it  is  considered  that 
they  have  a  factory  in  every  out-of-the-way  corner,  the 
producing  capacity  of  which  is  not  affected  either  by 
financial  fluctuations  or  the  weather,  but  has  all  seasons 
for  its  own,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  it  will  not  be  necessary 
to  import  any  more  of  them  at  present,  since  our 
unequalled  facilities  for  home  production  will  soon  make 
it  possible  to  raise  all  the  cockroaches  that  the  country 
needs. 

"  Now  I  like  that  pretty  well,"  said  Bob ;  "  there 
is  n't  any  melancholy  tang  to  that,  anyhow." 


THE  TEIANGULAE,   SOCIETY.  85 

"  But  it  seems  to  me  to  ;  end  in  the  air,'  as  you  said 
of  my  duck  story,"  said  the  mother.  "It  certainly 
does  n't  kill  off  all  the  cockroaches." 

"  I  wish  it  did,"  said  Brunette.  "  I  have  heard  that 
rats  may  be  driven  out  of  a  house  by  leaving  in  their 
haunts  a  written  request  for  them  to  go  ;  but  I  fancy 
the  cockroaches  at  the  office  will  even  endure  this 
article,  in  good  round  print,  without  taking  the 
hint." 

"Why,  Brunette,"  exclaimed  her  mother,  "you 
surely  don't  expect  that  article  to  be  printed  in  the 
Adviser?  It  's  neither  news,  nor  politics,  nor  relig 
ion,  nor  market  reports,  nor  ship  news,  nor  —  " 

"  Nor  advertisements,  nor  city  business,  nor  deaths 
and  marriages,"  rejoined  Brunette ;  "  but  I  'm  going 
to  try  it.  And  even  if  the  editor  does  n't  accept  it, 
there  's  always  one  place  where  I  can  find  room  for 
anything  I  write." 

"  Indeed  !  and  what  's  the  title  of  this  accommo 
dating  medium  between  unappreciated  genius  and  an 
indulgent  public  ?  " 

"  It  has  several  advantages  over  those  publications 
known  as  the  popular  magazines,"  said  Brunette  ;  "  it 
never  keeps  a  manuscript  three  or  four  years  after 
accepting  it ;  it  never  refuses  an  article  for  lack  of 
space ;  it  never  makes  any  unpleasant  remarks  about 
stamps  to  pay  return  postage.  In  fact  I  never  knew 
it  to  return  or  reject  a  manuscript." 

"  It  must  be  a  great  favorite  with  young  authors," 
commented  the  mother. 


86  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  don't  think  they  appreciate  it," 
said  Brunette,  "  although  the  merest  tyro  has  just  as 
good  a  chance  in  it  as  anybody,  every  article  being 
admitted  on  its  own  merits,  as  it  is  no  respecter  of 
persons.  Some  of  the  best  writers,  it  is  said,  have 
had  poems,  stories  and  essays  in  it ;  in  fact,  it  has 
probably  contained  a  greater  number  of  original 
papers  than  any  periodical  in  this  country  or  Europe. 
It  never  pays  its  contributors,  to  be  sure,  but  the  pro 
prietor  is  thought  to  make  quite  a  profit  out  of  it." 

u  But  do  tell  me  the  name  of  it,  and  when  and  where 
it  is  published  ?  "  said  the  wondering  mother. 

"  I  did  n't  say  it  was  published,"  said  Brunette.  "  I 
only  intimated  that  articles  are  inserted  in  it.  It 
appears  daily,  and  it  is  called,"  continued  she,  lower 
ing  her  voice,  and  wiping  an  imaginary  tear  from  one 
eye,  "  it  is  called  —  the  waste-basket !  " 

"  And  now  it  is  Robert's  turn,"  said  the  mother. 
So,  after  some  shuffling  of  leaves,  as  though  much  dif 
ficulty  were  experienced  in  finding  the  place,  that 
young  person  proceeded,  to  his  mother's  amazement, 
to  read  the  following : 

HOW   STRANGE  IT   WILL   BE. 

How  strange  it  will  be,  love  —  how  strange,  when  we  two 

Shall  be  what  all  lovers  become, 
When  love  is  no  longer  absorbingly  new;  — 
Not  vulgarly  faithless  —  not  really  untrue, 
But  cool  and  accustomed;  you,  ceasing  to  woo, 
Grown  thoughtless  of  me,  and  I  careless  of  you, — 


THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY.  87 

Our  pet  names  grown  rusty  with  nothing  to  do  — 
Love's  bright  web  unravelled,  and  rent,  and  worn  through, 
And  life's  loom  left  empty  —  O,  hum! 
Ah,  me! 

How  strange  it  will  be ! 

How  strange  it  will  be  when  the  witchery  goes 

Which  makes  me  seem  lovely  to-day; 
When  your  thought  of  me  loses  its  tint-of-the-rose  — 
"When  every  day  serves  some  new  fault  to  disclose, 
When  you  criticise  sharply,  eyes,  chin,  mouth  and  nose, 
And  wonder  you  could  for  a  moment  suppose 
I  was  out  of  the  commonplace  way; 
Ah,  me! 

How  strange  it  will  be ! 

How  strange  it  will  be,  love  —  how  strange,  when  we  meet 

With  just  a  chill  touch  of  the  hand! 
When  my  pulses  no  longer  delightedly  beat 
At  the  thought  of  your  coming — the  sound  of  your  feet, — • 
When  I  watch  not  your  going,  far  down  the  long  street, 
When  your  dear,  loving  voice,  now  so  thrillingly  sweet, 
Grows  harsh  in  reproach  or  command; 
Ah,  me! 

How  strange  it  will  be ! 

How  strange  it  will  be  when  we  willingly  stay 

Divided  the  weary  day  through! 
Or  keeping  remotely  apart  as  we  may, 
Sit  chilly  and  silent,  with  nothing  to  say, 
Or  coolly  converse  on  the  news  of  the  day, 
In  a  wearisome,  old-married-folks  sort  of  way! 
I  shrink  from  the  picture,  —  don't  you  ? 
Ah,  me! 

How  strange  it  will  be ! 


88  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Dear  love,  if  our  hearts  do  grow  torpid  and  old, 

As  so  many  others  have  done  — 
If  we  let  our  love  perish  with  hunger  and  cold, 
If  we  dim  all  life's  diamonds,  and  tarnish  its  gold, 
If  we  choose  to  live  wretched,  and  die  unconsoled, 
'T  will  be  strangest  of  all  things  that  ever  were  told 
As  happening  under  the  sun  I 
Ah,  me! 

How  strange  it  will  be ! 

"  Well,  of  all  things  for  a  boy's  scrap-book !  "  said 
his  sister.  "  Why  did  n't  you  select  a  chapter  from 
the  Rig-Veda,  or  some  passage  from  a  treatise  on  the 
differential  calculus,  or  a  speech  out  of  the  Congres 
sional  Record,  or  something  else  that  you  could  under 
stand  ?  I  never ! " 

"  Well,  I  don't  care,"  said  Bob,  a  little  confused,  "  it 
jingles  well,  and  it  is  n't  melancholy.  And  people 
like  lots  of  things  that  they  don't  understand." 

"  Bob  is  certainly  growing  wise  beyond  his  ears," 
said  Brunette.  "  And  now  I  '11  read  you  an  old  war 
reminiscence  that  I  found  the  other  day." 

ISHMAEL  DAY. 

One  summer  morning,  a  daring  band 

Of  rebels  rode  into  Maryland, 

Over  the  prosperous,  peaceful  farms, 

Sending  terror  and  strange  alarms, 

The  clatter  of  hoofs  and  the  clang  of  arms. 

Fresh  from  the  South  where  the  hungry  pine, 
They  ate  like  Pharaoh's  starving  kine; 


THE  TEIANGULAE   SOCIETY.  89 

They  swept  the  land  like  devouring  surge, 
And  left  their  path,  to  its  furthest  verge, 
Bare  as  the  track  of  the  locust-scourge. 

'The  rebels  are  coming!  "  far  and  near 

Kang  the  tidings  of  dread  and  fear; 

Some  paled  and  cowered,  and  sought  to  hide  — 
Some  stood  and  waited,  in  fearless  pride, 
And  women  shuddered,  and  children  cried. 

But  others  —  vipers  in  human  form 
Stinging  the  bosom  that  kept  them  warm, 

Welcomed  with  triumph  the  thievish  band, 
Hurried  to  offer  the  friendly  hand, 
As  the  rebels  rode  into  Maryland,  — 

Made  them  merry  with  food  and  wine, 

Clad  them  in  garments  rich  and  fine 

For  rags  and  hunger  to  make  amends, 
Flattered  them,  praised  them,  with  selfish  ends — 
"  Leave  its  scathless,  for  we  are  friends! " 

Could  traitors  trust  in  a  traitor?    No! 

Little  they  favored  friend  or  foe, 

But  gathered  the  cattle  the  farms  across, 
Flinging  back,  with  a  scornful  toss, 
"  If  ye  are  friends,  ye  can  bear  the  loss!  " 

Flushed  with  triumph,  and  wine,  and  prey, 
They  neared  the  dwelling  of  Ishmael  Day, 
A  sturdy  veteran,  gray  and  old, 
With  heart  of  a  patriot,  firm  and  bold, 
Strong  and  steadfast  —  unbribed,  unsold. 

And  Ishmael  Day,  his  brave  head  bare, 
His  white  locks  tossed  by  the  morning  air, 


90  THE  TEIANGULAK   SOCIETY. 

Fearless  of  danger,  and  death,  and  scars, 
Went  out  to  raise,  by  the  farm-yard  bars, 
The  dear  old  flag  of  the  stripes  and  stars. 

Proudly,  steadily  up  it  flew, 

Gorgeous  with  crimson,  and  white,  and  blue; 
His  withered  hand,  as  he  shook  it  freer, 
May  have  trembled,  but  not  with  fear, 
While,  shouting,  the  rebels  drew  more  near. 

"  Halt!  "  They  had  seen  the  hated  sign 
Floating  wide  from  old  Ishmael's  line. 

"  Lower  that  rag  !  "  was  their  wrathful  cry. 
"  Never!  "   rang  Ishmael  Day's  reply; 
"Fire,  if  it  please  you!  I  can  but  die!  " 

One  with  a  loud,  defiant  laugh, 

Left  his  comrades  and  grasped  the  staff; 

"Down!  "  came  the  fearless  patriot's  cry; 

"  Dare  to  lower  that  flag,  and  die! 
One  must  bleed  for  it  —  you  or  II  " 

But  caring  not  for  the  stern  command, 
He  drew  the  halliards  with  daring  hand. 

Ping!  went  the  rifle-ball,  —  down  he  came 
Under  the  flag  he  had  tried  to  shame. 
Old  Ishmael  Day  took  careful  aim ! 

Hark!  an  echo!  and  now  again 
The  tramp  and  tumult  of  armed  men; 
And  panic-stricken,  the  lawless  band 
Left  their  leader  upon  the  sand, 
And  fled  in  fear  out  of  Maryland. 

Seventy  winters  and  three  had  shed 
Their  snowy  glories  on  Ishmael's  head; 


THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY.  91 

But  though  checks  may  wither,  and  locks  grow 

gray, 

His  fame  shall  be  fresh  and  young  alway  — 
Honor  be  to  old  Ishmael  Day  I 

"  Well,  what  became  of  him  ?  "  asked  Bob. 

"  Probably  he  died,  when  his  time  came,"  said  Bru 
nette  ;  "  when  a  man  is  seventy-three  years  old,  he 
can't  look  forward  to  a  very  long  or  varied  career." 

"  He  was  one  of  the  nine-days  heroes  of  the  civil 
war,"  said  the  mother  —  "  the  newspapers  praised  him 
for  a  week  or  two,  and  lion-hunters  called  to  see  him 
in  his  poor  shelter,  somewhere*  near  Baltimore,  and 
then  he  was  forgotten,  and  left  to  starve,  like  most 
private  heroes.  And  now  I  '11  read  you  a  brief  arti 
cle,  and  then  it  will  be  bed-time." 

A  CAGEU  LION. 

He  stands  behind  his  iron  bars, 
Untamed,  untamable  and  proud, 

Disgraced  by  bondage,  seamed  by  scars, 
The  centre  of  a  taunting  crowd. 

Hunger  and  blows  have  vanquished  him, 
Weakened  his  limbs  and  dwarfed  his  size, 

Yet  all  his  woes  have  failed  to  dim 
The  yellow  splendor  of  his  eyes,  — 

Which  note  no  face  in  all  the  throng, 

But  see  across,  beyond,  afar, 
The  jungle  depths,  remembered  long, 

And  desert  palms  of  Africa. 


92  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

So  human  souls,  enslaved  by  chance, 
Deformed  by  time's  remorseless  scars, 

And  scourged  by  cruel  circumstance, 
Behind  Fate's  hindering  prison-bars, — 

Heedless  alike  of  praise  and  jeers, 
Blind  to  the  present's  chilly  truth, 

See,  through  the  unfriendly  crowd  of  years, 
The  torrid  tropics  of  their  youth! 

"  How  queer  it  is,"  said  Brunette,  meditatively, 
"  that  you  never  can  make  a,  captive  lion  look  at  you. 
He  seems  to  be  looking  over  your  head,  or  through  or 
beyond  you  —  you  never  can  catch  his  eye.  I  won 
der  if  it  would  be  so  if  you  should  meet  a  wild  one 
on  his  native  plain  ?  " 

"  I  rather  think,  in  that  case,  the  lion  would  do  the 
catching,"  suggested  Bob.  "  Anyway,  I  should  n't 
care  to  try  the  experiment." 

"  I  do  pity  those  tropical  creatures,  when  they  are 
brought  captive  over-sea  for  people  to  stare  at,"  said 
the  mother,  —  "  no  wonder  they  '11  not  look  at  their 
tormentors  —  it  is  the  only  right  which  cannot  be 
taken  from  them.  And  even  if  a  lion  or  an  elephant 
escapes  from  his  keepers,  his  case  is  utterly  hopeless  ; 
he  cannot  possibly  get  back  to  his  own  lovely  land 
again.  He  is  sure  to  be  either  recaptured  or  killed." 

"  I  suppose  it  's  bedtime,"  ventured  Bob,  "  but  I 
have  just  one  more  bit  of  verse  that  I  want  to  read. 
The  paper  I  cut  it  from  said  the  story  was  true." 

"  Of  course  there  's  no  manner  of  doubt  about  it  if 
the  newspaper  said  so,"  said  Brunette.  "  I  remember 


THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY.  9*3 

when  I  was  a  little  girl,  just  beginning  to  read  the 
newspapers,  I  one  day  repeated  some  story  which  I 
had  spelled  out,  with  infinite  labor,  in  the  columns  of 
a  weekly  journal,  and  was  beyond  measure  amazed 
when  somebody  said  it  was  n't  true.  '  True ! '  said 
I,  *  of  course  it  is  true  ;  I  read  it  in  the  newspaper ! ' 
How  I  was  laughed  to  scorn  for  my  confidence!  I 
thought  then  that  nothing  was  put  in  print  that 
was  n't  true.  But,  Bob,  let  us  have  your  story." 

"  I  think  this  is  true,"  said  Bob,  "  because  it  told 
the  man's  name,  and  all  the  circumstances,  in  the 
prose  introduction  to  the  verses."  And  he  read  as 
follows : 

THE  LAST  VOYAGE. 

The  midnight  skies  of  autumn  were  brilliant  overhead, 

As  up  the  gleaming  Hudson  the  laden  vessel  sped ; 

The  while  with  eye  unsleeping,  and  nerves  as  strong  as 

steel, 
The  brave  and  faithful  pilot  kept  vigil  at  the  wheel. 

His  home  had  been  the  river,  —  he  loved  its  ceaseless 
roar; 

He  knew  each  mile  of  channel,  each  winding  curve  of 
shore ; 

Had  dared  its  rocks  and  shallows,  and  laughed  at  lands 
men's  fears 

In  every  wind  and  weather,  for  five-and-twenty  years. 

No  vapor  hid  the  pole-star,  no  tempest  crossed  the  night, 
No  mist- wreath  veiled  the  waters,  no  haze  obscured  the 

sight, 

But  on  the  quiet  midnight  the  bell's  alarming  note 
Hang  out  with  sudden  clangor,  the  warning  "  Slow  the 

boat!  " 


94  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Up  sprang  the  second  pilot,  with  wonder  in  his  eyes; 
"What  hoi  where  is  the  danger?''  he  asked  in  dazed 

surprise. 

"  The  sky  is  clear  above  us,  the  water  deep  below; 
What  hidden  peril  threatens,  or  wheref9re  signal  so  ?  " 

The  boat  slid  through  the  water  with  smooth  and  even 

keel, 
With  grasp  unmoved  and  steady,  the  old  man  held  the 

wheel, 

Nor  ever  paused  or  faltered,  but  raised  his  eyes  to  say 
"  A  heavy  fog  has  fallen  —  I  cannot  see  the  way!  " 

"No!  look!  the  night  is  cloudless,  the  way  is  straight 

and  clear; 
Yonder  's  the  light  at  Ehinebeck,  and  Eondout  lies  off 

here." 
Still  unconvinced,  he  whispered,  his  voice  grown  faint 

and  hoarse, 
"The  fog  is  thick  and  heavy,  and  we  have  lost  our 

course! " 

Awed  suddenly  to  silence,  the  other  took  his  place; 

He  marked  the  deathly  pallor  that  touched  the  old  man's 

face. 

The  pilot's  work  was  ended;  it  was  his  time  to  go 
Upon  that  mystic  voyage  whose  port  we  may  not  know. 

His  years  of  patient  labor  and  watchful  care  were  past; 
A  true  and  faithful  servant,  and  loyal  to  the  last, 
He  felt  across  his  vision  death's  icy  dimness  steal, 
His  eye  upon  the  beacon,  his  hand  upon  the  wheel. 

Surely  some  waiting  angel,  who  counts  as  victories  won 
Long  years  of  earnest  labor  and  duties  nobly  done, 
Some  just  and  gentle  angel,  with  forehead  like  the  day, 
Helped  his  bewildered  spirit  to  find  the  shining  way ! 


IX. 

TYPOGRAPHICAL  ERRORS. 

"  MOTHER,"  said  Brunette  one  day,  coming  in,  tired 
and  fretted  with  her  day's  work,  "  I  do  believe  that 
typographical  errors  are  the  most  exasperating  things 
in  this  world.  It  does  seem  to  me  that  the  average 
compositor  actually  exhausts  ingenuity  in  trying  to 
make  absurd  every  paragraph  that  passes  through  his 
hands.  The  most  vexatious  thing  about  it,  is  that  if 
the  whole  sense  or  wit  of  an  item  hangs  on  one  word 
or  one  letter,  that  is  the  very  word  or  letter  which  is 
wrong  in  the  proof." 

"  Brunette  !  "  said  the  mother,  "  you  are  actually 
scolding.  I  am  afraid  your  newspaper  work  is  spoil 
ing  your  temper." 

"And  well  it  may,"  rejoined  the  girl,  —  "look  at 
this  !  I  have  been  made  to  state  to-day  to  several 
thousands  of  people,  that  according  to  the  weather 
report  from  New  York,  they  have  had  there  4  a  fall  of 
snow  and  brick  and  northerly  winds  ! ' ' 

"  Did  bricks  really  fall  ?  "  asked  Bob,  dropping  the 
slate  whereon  he  had  been  drawing  cats  with  three- 
cornered  faces.  "  The  wind  must  have  been  awful,  to 
blow  the  very  bricks  out  of  the  walls  !  " 

"  I  wrote  '  brisk  and  northerly  winds,'  "  explained 

95 


96  THE   TEIANGULAE   SOCIETY. 

Brunette,  —  "and  the  other  day,  when  I  copied  among 
the  personal  items  a  description  of  the  appearance  of 
a  well-known  French  politician's  daughter,  mentioning 
that  her  eyes  were  fine,  I  was  represented  as  stating 
to  an  astonished  world  that  'Mademoiselle  Grevy  has 
five  eyes  ! '  " 

"Never  mind,  Brunette,"  said  Bob,  soothingly, 
"  nobody  will  believe  it." 

"  I  'm  afraid  that  's  the  most  vexatious  part  of  it, 
to  Brunette,"  ventured  the  mother ;  "  if  people  could 
only  be  made  to  believe  these  remarkable  announce 
ments,  the  newspaper  would  be  pronounced  uncom 
monly  enterprising,  —  in  fact,  it  would  soon  merit  the 
compliment  of  being  called  '  a  sprightly  sheet.' " 

"You  may  laugh  all  you  like,"  said  Brunette, 
gloomily,  taking  a  half-sheet  of  pencilled  printing- 
paper,  badly  crumpled,  out  of  her  pocket,  "  but  when 

I  read  you   some  of  the  grievances  set  down  here, 

things  which  have  wrung  my  heart  to  strings  within 
the  last  three  months,  you  will  see  that  it  's  no  laugh 
ing  matter  to  me.  lor  instance,  when,  speaking  of 
the  servant-girl  question,  I  said  many  employers  com 
plained  because  Norah  and  Bridget  '  turned  the  meal- 
hours  upside-down  with  their  masses,'  meaning,  of 
course,  that  the  servants  changed  the  breakfast-hour  to 
suit  their  church-going  —  what  outrageous  accusation 
do  you  suppose  I  was  made  to  bring  against  those 
devoted  young  women?  The  paper  gravely  stated 
that  they  turned  the  meat-house  upside-down  !  " 

"  Of   all  things !  "    exclaimed  her  mother,  —  "  how 


TYPOGRAPHICAL  ERRORS.  97 

on  earth  could  any  type-setter  see  any  sense  in 
that?" 

"  He  did  n't,"  said  Brunette  ;  "  he  simply  paid  no 
attention  whatever  to  what  he  was  doing,  excepting 
in  a  purely  mechanical  way.  The  two  compound 
words  do  bear  a  slight  resemblance  to  each  other,  and 
he  acted  on  his  first  impression,  wit!) out  regard  to  the 
meaning  of  the  sentence  at  all,  his  wits  being  wool 
gathering  miles  away.  When  I  call  the  compositors 
to  account  for  these  blunders,  they  invariably  say,  1 1 
was  thinking  of  something  else,'  as  though  that  were 
any  excuse.  When  a  tailor  or  a  carpenter  or  a  dress 
maker  fails  to  make  a  tiling  according  to  pattern, 
when  a  clerk  makes  a  blunder  in  his  accounts,  or  a 
wife  fails  to  have  breakfast  ready  for  her  husband  at 
the  precise  moment,  —  not  one  of  these  culprits  ever 
thinks  of  accounting  for  the  misbehavior  by  cheerfully 
remarking,  '  I  was  thinking  of  something  else.'  It 
would  only  make  his  or  her  condemnation  greater. 
Yet  it  is  the  shield  and  buckler  of  the  average  com 
positor,  when  caught  in  these  provoking  blunders,  — 
this  prompt  admission  that  his  mind  is  not  on  his 
work." 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  the  mother,  reflectively,  "  how 
a  printer  can  set  type  without  looking  at  every  letter, 
and  getting  the  sense  of  every  sentence  —  if  there  's 
any  in  it,"  she  added,  guardedly. 

"  Well,  he  can,"  replied  Brunette,  "  after  a  fashion. 
I  know  a  veteran  printer  who  has  set  type  for  forty 
years,  who  will  now  set  two  columns  on  any  subject, 
5 


98  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

and  when  he  has  finished,  declare  that  he  has  no  idea 

what  it  was  about.     I  once  knew  him  to  set  a  lon<* 

e> 

article  about  the  settlement  and  progress  of  Chicago, 
in  which  the  city's  name  occurred  again  and  again, 
and  yet,  when  the  proof-reader,  irritated  by  some  out 
rageous  blunder  in  the  proof,  called  rather  perempto 
rily  for  the  copy,  that  compositor  declared  that  it 
was  n't  on  his  string,  and  when  the  demand  was 
pressed,  became  quite  angry,  and  insisted  that  he 
'had  n't  set  or  seen  a  word  about  Chicago  for  a  week.' 
And  he  had  picked  up  the  letters  forming  the  name 
of  that  enterprising  town,  and  put  them  in  proper 
order,  a  dozen  times  in  the  last  half-hour." 

"  I  have  often  heard  it  said  that  a  printing-office  is 
an  excellent  school  for  boys  who  have  had  small  edu 
cational  .advantages,"  said  the  mother,  "but  —  " 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  too  severe,"  interrupted  Brunette, 
"  when  I  say  that  to  me  it  seems  as  though  the  aver 
age  compositor  is  made  out  of  just  that  sort  of  boy. 
Half  the  compositors  I  know,  always  misspell  the 
words  receive,  believe,  reprieve,  perceive,  and  the  like, 
invariably  misplacing  the  vowels  in  the  last  syllable, 
even  with  correct  copy  before  their  eyes.  Quite  as 
many  of  them  fail  to  see  the  difference  between  the 
plural  and  the  possessive,  allowing  their  work  to  speak 
confidently  of  'two  chair's,'  or  'two  horse's,'  and  again 
of  « Mr.  Smiths  house,'  or  '  Mr.  Ross  late  accident.' 
And  as  for  the  trade  being  a  school  to  them,  it  seems 
quite  impossible  to  change  their  opinion  on  these  deli 
cate  points  by  teaching  them  anything.  I  had  a  little 


TYPOGRAPHICAL  EEKOIIS.  99 

reunion  of  compositors  in  my  corner  of  the  office  the 
other  day,  on  which  occasion  I  undertook,  in  a  man 
ner  which  I  intended  to  be  charmingly  inductive,  to 
impress  on  their  minds  some  small  facts  regarding  the 
plural  number  and  the  possessive  case.  Of  course  I 
told  them  that  an  observance  of  these  facts  would 
save  them  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  But  even  my 
disinterestedness  failed  to  convince  them.  They 
thanked  me,  and  went  back  to  their  work,  doing  it  in 
the  same  old  way,  with  the  exception  of  one,  who, 
apparently  utterly  befogged  by  my  instructions,  care 
fully  refrains  from  using  an  inverted  comma  from  that 
day  to  this.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  get  the  pos 
sessive  of  a  word  which  ends  with  the  letter  s,  prop 
erly  spelled  and  punctuated  in  a  newspaper ;  and  I 
have  never,  since  my  experience  began,  succeeded  in 
getting  the  word  4  cheery '  printed  otherwise  than 
« cherry,'  in  the  proof-columns." 

"  Perhaps  your  writing  is  illegible  sometimes,"  sug 
gested  the  mother,  trying  to  defend  the  absent.  "I  'm 
sure  when  you  wrote  me  last  summer  that  a  dreadful 
accident  had  happened  near  your  uncle's  house  —  that 
three  of  Mr.  Blank's  children  had  been,  by  the  upset 
ting  of  their  father's  cow,  drowned  in  the  bag,  I 
thought  you  had  gone  distracted,  —  until  it  was 
explained  that  they  were  drowned  in  the  bay  by  the 
upsetting  of  a  canoe,  —  or  was  it  a  scow  ?  " 

"  Well,"  answered  Brunette,  a  little  abashed,  "  per 
haps  I  don't  always  write  like  copper-plate  engraving, 
but  I  've  often  thought  that  the  printer  does  bettei 


100  THE  TEIANGULAB   SOCIETY. 

when  setting  the  most  illegible  manuscript,  than  when 
he  is  at  work  on  good  plain  printed  copy.  For 
instance,  in  the  reprint  of  an  article  on  Turkey,  the 
other  day.  I  saw  it  stated  that '  Xb  people  bathe  as 
often  as  the  Turks,  but  none  are  so  indifferent  to  civil 
ideas.'  The  last  two  words  were  '  evil  odors.'  In  a 
sentimental  story  not  long  ago,  a  young  man  was 
described  as  casting  upon  his  sweetheart  '  a  look  of 
administration,'  instead  of  admiration  ;  and  she,  not 
to  be  behindhand,  it  would  seem,  'gazed  upon  him 
with  diluted  eyes.'  As  she  had  previously  been 
described  as  '  a  beautiful  blur-eyed  girl,'  this  was  only 
consistent." 

"  I  remember  reading  in  the  Adviser,  long  before 
you  went  into  the  office,"  said  the  mother,  "  an  item 
stating  that  some  bad  boys  had  been  selling  stolen 
type  to  '  a  firm  of  old  pink  dishes '  on  Fore  street. 
The  item  seemed  serious,  and  I  always  wondered 
what  it  meant." 

"It  meant 'old  junk  dealers,' "said  Brunette,  "that  's 
easy  to  see.  But  when  you  read  of  a  good  man 
recently  deceased,  that 4  he  always  drew  on  his  cheek 
bone  at  the  call  of  benevolence,'  what  are  you  going 
to  understand  by  that  ?  " 

"I  know,"  exclaimed  Bob,  who  had  been  a  per 
plexed  listener  to  the  discussion,  and  now  saw  a 
chance  to  make  himself  useful  "  Billy  Brown  told 
me  the  other  day  that  he  thought  his  father  would  be 
benevolent  enough  to  give  him  half  a  dollar  to  <*o  to 
the  circus  with;  but  when  Billy  asked  him,  he  said  no, 


TYPOGEAPHICAL  EEEOES.  101 

and   Billy   said, 'Didn't   he  have  the   cheek?'    and 
perhaps —  " 

"  I  wish  you  would  n't  bring  home  the  slang  you 
hear  at  school,  Bob,"  said  his  sister,  —  "  and  besides, 
you  jump  at  the  wrong  conclusion.  It  was  the  gen 
tleman's  cheque-book,  and  not  his  cheek-bone,  which 
he  drew  upon  when  people  wanted  money.  And  here 
the  other  week,  on  the  occasion  of  the  trial  trip  of  a 
new  steamer  between  here  and  Boston,  I  was  made 
guilty  of  remarking  that  '  the  steamer's  engines  were 
stopped  from  the  time  she  left  Portland  until  she 
reached  Boston  —  an  unusual  and  severe  test ! '  — 
whereas  it  meant  that  the  engines  were  not  stopped 
for  the  whole  trip.  That  important  word  'not'  makes 
a  vast  difference  in  a  sentence,  sometimes,  and  it 
seems  to  be  the  special  delight  of  the  compositor  to 
leave  it  out.  Of  course  a  good  many  of  the  errors  I 
catch,  and  mark  in  the  proof-columns,  so  they  are  cor 
rected,  and  never  meet  the  gaze  of  a  censorious  world. 
But  often  and  often,  in  the  hurry  of  'making  up,' 
the  correcting  is  scamped,  overlooked  or  neglected 
altogether,  and  the  errors  which  I  have  carefully 
marked,  stare  at  me  triumphantly  in  the  last  edition. 
Not  long  ago,  in  the  report  of  a  trial  during  which  it 
was  proved  that  one  party  had  been  severely  injured 
by  a  pistol  fired  by  another,  I  read  with  horror,  *  It  is 
plain  that  the  discharge  of  the  jury  at  the  plaintiff 
had  a  tendency  to  shorten  his  life.'  '  Jury '  was  the 
type-setter's  translation  of  the  written  word  'gun.'" 


102  THE   TEIANGULAE   SOCIETY. 

"  I  'm  sure,"  said  Bob,  who  had  been  lost  in  thought 
eo  deep  that  lie  failed  to  catch  the  explanation,  « I  'm 
sure  I  Ve  heard  about  discharging  a  jury.  But  I 
did  n't  know  they  ever  discharged  it  at  anybody,  or 
that  it  ever  killed  anybody.  It  must  be  that  they 
did  n't  know  it  was  loaded." 


X. 

THE  SECOND  TRIANGULAR. 

"  I  FOUND  some  lines  yesterday,"  said  the  mother, 
at  the  next  meeting  of  the  Triangular  Society,  "which 
express  a  feeling  that  I  fancy  comes  to  everybody 
sometimes.  I  will  read  them  first." 

A  DEAR  LONESOME  DAY. 
I  have  been  searching  through  every  room, 
Careless  of  echoes,  and  silence,  and  gloom; 
Upstairs  and  down,  from  the  roof  to  the  ground, 
No  human  being  is  there  to  be  found  I 
And  I  exult  in  an  infinite  glee, — 
No  living  soul  in  the  castle  but  me ! 
So,  jubilate!  I  turn  all  the  keys, — 
World,  do  without  me  to-day,  if  you  please! 

I  am  alone!  I  can  laugh  or  can  cry, 
Nobody  watches  or  questions  me  why,  — 
Nobody  asks  what  the  matter  may  be,  — 
Oh,  how  delightful  it  is  to  be  free! 
Talk  of  society's  rarest  delights, 
Sociable  mornings  and  talkative  nights, — 
Willingly,  gladly,  I  fling  them  away,  — 
Give  me  myself  and  a  dear  lonesome  day! 

I  am  alone!    I  can  do  as  I  will, 
Ilest  or  be  busy,  be  noisy  or  still,  — 

103 


THE  TKIANGULAK   SOCIETY. 

Read,  sing,  work,  study,  or  string  at  my  ease 
Verses  (don't  criticise,  — better  than  these. 
These  are  the  bubbles  atop  of  the  wine; 
Just  a  relief  for  this  gladness  of  mine,) 
Jubilant,  joyous,  ecsk  ic,  I  say  — 
I  am  deliciously  lonesome  to-day! 

Tired  of  the  friction  of  soul  against  soul, — 
Who  can  endure  it,  and  keep  his  own  whole  I 
Tired  of  all  argument,  counsel  and  blame, 
Tired  of  my  yoke-fellows,  tired  of  my  name, 
Tired  of  tame  questions  and  tamer  replies, 
Figures,  and  faces,  and  voices,  and  eyes, — 
Often  anil  often  I  cordially  pray, 
Give  me  myself  and  a  dear  lonesome  day! 

After  so  long  being  worried  and  whirled 
In  this  bewildering  cage  of  the  world, 

Like  a  poor  squirrel  made  captive,  I  feel, 

Caught  from  the  nut-woods  and  kept  in  a  wheel. 
Oh !  the  broad  desert  —  the  wide  lonesome  sea 
Seems  a  desirable  dwelling  to  me; 
Not  self-sufficient,  but  weary,  — I  say 
Give  me  myself  and  a  dear  lonesome  day! 

Selkirk,  ungrateful,  irascible  elf, 

Growled,  with  a  whole  island  all  to  himself, 

And  in  the  midst  of  his  numberless  farms, 

Questioned  of  solitude,  "  Where  are  thy  charms?" 

Stupid  old  fellow  he  was,  I  declare,  — 

I  could  have  answered,  if  I  had  been  there; 

And  if  I  err  not,  with  little  ado, 

I  could  have  taught  him  to  value  them  too! 


THE   SECOND   TRIANGULAB.  105 

Oh,  't  is  so  rare  and  delightful  to  be 
Careless,  unguarded,  imwatchful,  and  free, 
Not  observed,  looked  at,  and  marked  all  the  while. 
So  if  one  will,  one  may  frown,  blush,  or  smile, 
With  the  sweet  surety  that  no  one  will  spy, 
Guess  at  one's  motives,  and  judge  one  thereby. 
Blessings  on  Fate,  let  her  scowl  when  she  may,— 
I  am  deliciously  lonesome  to-day  I 

"  Mother,"  said  Brunette,  "  whenever  you  feel  like 
that  again,  just  let  Bob  and  me  know,  and  wo  will 
take  the  first  train  on  the  Ogdensburgh.  As  for  me, 
I  have  n't  written  much  verse  lately ;  I  have  been  too 
busy,  and  business  is  prose.  So  I  will  read  you  my 
excuse  in  verse,  and  then  give  you  my  prose  remarks 
on  old  gardens  and  old-fashioned  flowers." 

WINTER  TIME. 
I  cannot  touch  the  cheerful  strain 

My  summer  used  to  know, 
My  soul  is  barren  as  the  plain 

Beneath  December's  snow; 
Its  gorgeous  hues  are  dim  and  pale, 

Its  fountain-voices  dumb ; 
Dead  blossoms  drift  before  the  gale, — 

My  winter  time  has  come. 

The  soaring  eagle  cannot  stay 

Forever  on  the  wing, 
The  dew-drops  cannot  shine  all  day, 

Nor  thrushes  always  sing. 
5* 


106  THE   TEIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

The  flowers,  in  field  and  garden-plot, 

Faint  as  the  long  days  roll; 
All  things  seek  rest  —  and  wherefore  not 

A  feeble  human  soul  ? 

You  do  not  chide  when  Nature's  hand, 

Bidding  her  toilers  cease, 
Spreads  wide  across  the  dreary  land 

White  robes  of  rest  and  peace; 
Then  do  not  blame  as  waste  and  crime 

My  dead  and  fruitless  hours, 
For  souls  must  have  their  winter  time 

As  well  as  streams  and  flowers. 

You  do  not  seek  anemones 

In  January's  dawn, 
Nor  ask  for  June's  sweet  harmonies 

When  all  the  birds  are  gone; 
Then  do  not  plead  for  me  to  sing 

A  summer  melody, 
When,  though  the  world  may  call  it  spring, 

'T  is  winter  time  with  me. 

"Your  apology  is  sufficient,"  laughed  the  mother. 
"  I  would  accept  an  apology  like  that,  any  time,  in 
preference  to  some  of  the  poems  you  have  given  us." 

"  I  think,"  put  in  Bob,  sagely,  "  that  Brunette  writes 
better  when  she  can't  write,  than  she  does  when  she 
can." 

"That  is  encouraging,"  replied  Brunette.  "And 
now  for  the  prose." 


THE  SECOND   TRIANGULAR.  107 

OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS. 

A  city  paper  says  that  there  is  a  lilac-tree  in  Deering, 
which  is  a  hundred  years  old.  This,  though  unusual,  is 
not  specially  remarkable,  since  the  lilac  is  a  perennial, 
and  asks  no  care  or  favor,  only  desiring  to  be  let  alone. 
The  lilac  used  to  be  much  more  fashionable  than  now,  at 
a  time  when  very  few  flowering  shrubs  were  known  in 
New  England  dooryards.  Almost  every  country-house 
of  the  better  class  then  had  its  clump  of  lilacs.  In  the 
rage  for  new  things,  many  of  these  old  friends  have  been 
crowded  out;  but  still  in  many  country  and  village  gar 
dens  in  Maine,  there  flourishes  the  same  lilac  bush 
which  gray-headed  men  and  women  remember  as  bloom 
ing  in  their  babyhood,  and  bearing  the  lovely  purple 
plumes  then  for  some  unexplained  reason,  known  as 
ulaylocks."  Beautiful  flowers  indeed  they  are,  with 
their  delicate  varying  tints,  their  graceful  movement  in 
the  wind,  and  their  sweet,  homelike  odor.  But  hardy 
and  common  though  the  lilac-tree  may  be,  it  has  an 
unusual  pride  and  self-respect.  It  will  not  allow  its  blos 
soms  to  be  cheapened.  They  wilt  immediately  on  being 
broken  from  the  tree;  whoever  would  enjoy  them  must 
go  where  they  grow.  The  shy  arbutus,  the  delicate 
ferns,  the  floral  beauties  of  the  garden  and  the  green 
house,  may  be  purchased  in  the  market,  for  so  much 
money;  even  the  queenly  daughter  of  the  lakes,  the  wild 
white  water-lily,  may  be  bought  for  a  price  in  the  streets 
and  in  the  railway-trains,  —  but  the  lovely  languid  lilac 
droops  in  the  hand  that  would  make  merchandise  of  its 
beauty,  and  refuses  utterly  to  be  bought  or  sold. 

In  an  old  garden  in  Androscoggin  county,  there  is  still 
a  clump  of  asparagus  which  was  set  there  more  than  a 
hundred  years  ago,  in  the  old  days  when  all  good  house- 


108  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

keepers  thought  it  necessary  to  have  branches  of  "  spar 
row-grass,"  with  its  graceful  feathery  sprays  full  of  red 
berries,  to  occupy  the  idle  "fore-room"  fire-place  in 
summer,  and  to  decorate  the  best  looking-glass  the  year 
round.  Not  a  person  in  that  town,  then,  probably,  had 
ever  raised  asparagus  as  an  edible;  it  was  simply  as  an 
ornament  that  it  was  cultivated  — if  placing  it  in  a  use 
less  corner  of  the  garden,  and  allowing  it  to  take  care  of 
itself,  could  be  called  cultivation. 

In  the  same  old  garden  there  was,  and  is  probably  to 
this  day,  a  patch  of  ribbon-grass,  then  called  "lady- 
grass,"  in  which  little  children  — who  now  feel  like 
antediluvians,  —  used  to  hunt  by  the  hour  to  find  two 
"spears"  alike,  but  never  succeeded.  The  patch  was 
old  then,  and  had  begun  to  revert  to  the  original  green 
around  the  edges,  but  it  was  a  joy,  a  wonder  and  a  puz 
zle  to  children  still,  and  may  be  yet;  albeit  nowadays  so 
much  of  the  ingenuity,  labor  and  money  of  the  wrorld 
are  spent  in  devising  amusements  and  pleasant  occupa 
tions  for  children,  that  they  are  not,  as  a  class,  apt  to  find 
pleasure  and  entertainment  in  so  simple  and  inexpensive 
things  as  delighted  and  satisfied  the  little  ones  of  a 
former  generation. 

In  the  same  garden,  too,  was  a  clump  of  cumfrey,  with 
its  rough  woolen  leaves  flavored  like  cucumbers,  and  its 
sprays  of  delicate  wax-like  white  bells,  which  were  so 
vexatiously  sure  to  drop  off  before  chubby  hands  could 
break  the  stems.  This  clump  had  been  there  "  ever 
since  grandmother  was  a  little  girl,"  according  to  the 
children  —  and  unless  the  garden  has  suffered  modern 
"  improvement,"  or  a  railway  has  been  run  through  it, 
it  probably  grows  there  still. 

In  the  garden  of  an  old  house  in  Franklin  county, 


THE   SECOND   TRIANGULAR.  109 

there  was,  years  ago,  and  probably  is  to-day,  a  dense 
clump  of  rather  course-growing  herbage,  known  among 
the  children  as  "  lovage  "  —  a  name  never  heard  in  mod 
ern  gardens.  The  leafage  was  something  like  that  of 
parsnips,  but  smoother,  and  the  fresh  leaves  were  often 
eaten  by  the  children  of  the  resident  family,  although 
the  flavor  was  rather  rank,  and  the  mother  used  to 
express  frequent  disapproval  because  when  they  were 
put  to  bed  at  night,  it  was  discovered  from  their  too-fra 
grant  breath  that  they  had  been  "  eating  lovage,"  which 
she  specially  detested.  Years  passed,  and  one  of  these 
children,  always  specially  interested  in  "  green  things 
growing,"  tried  in  vain  to  find  in  any  garden  the  old 
familiar  "lovage,"  the  memory  of  which  was  pleasant 
for  its  old  associations.  Not  only  was  there  no  "lov 
age,"  but  nobody  had  ever  heard  of  it.  But  persever 
ance  and  comparison  finally  succeeded  in  establishing 
the  fact  that  the  poor,  despised,  stalky,  tough,  and  strong- 
flavored  "  lovage"  was  simply  and  only  the  crisp,  white 
succulent  celery  of  the  city  markets,  strayed  into  the 
country  and  run  wild  —  uncultivated,  untrenched,  un- 
blanched  and  unvalued,  having  lost  even  its  name  in  the 
transition;  like  some  dainty  city  girl,  who  from  being  the 
admired  and  appreciated  centre  of  a  brilliant  social  cir 
cle,  is  transplanted  into  some  out-of-the-way  country 
corner,  under  another  name,  and  presently  finds  herself 
rooted  to  a  spot  where  nobody  recognizes  her  real  value 
and  charm,  and  where  her  u  maiden  name  "  is  unknown 
even  to  her  nearest  neighbors. 

There  is  a  fashion  in  flowers  as  truly  as  there  is  in 
coffins.  Everybody  who  ^ver  had  a  country  grand 
mother,  remembers  the  grass  pinks,  hollyhocks,  mar 
joram,  damask  roses,  four  o'clocks,  fennel,  love-lies- 


110  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

bleeding,  gauze-flowers,  mallows,  sweet-williams,  London 
pride,  lady's-delights,  and  a  dozen  oilier  things  which 
used  to  grow  in  her  garden:  the  enormous  marigolds,  as 
large  as  oranges;  the  clump  of  "double  tansy"  in  the 
fence-corner;  the  coriander,  dill,  and  caraway,  and  the 
wholesome-smelling  bush  of  gray  wormwood;  the  dear 
little  "cinnamon"  roses,  which  came  so  early  and 
bloomed  so  bountifully;  and  the  sweet  old-fashioned  sap- 
onaria,  which  the  children  called  "bouncing  Bet,"  With 
its  faint,  far-away,  delicate  odorr  and  its  loose  petals 
always  bursting  their  calyx  with  sheer  too-muchness  of 
flower;  and  the  low,  creeping,  moss-like  camomile,  with 
its  delicious  odor  of  health  and  soundness  — the  one 
plant  which  was  supposed  to  grow  all  the  better  for  being 
walked  over  —  to  really  enjoy  being  stepped  on;  the 
pretty  plat  of  thrift,  the  queer  blue  devil-in-the-bush, 
and  the  fragrant  blue-green  bush  of  southernwood,  whose 
rare  blossoming  was  popularly  supposed  to  herald  "  a 
death  in  the  family."  What  garden  has  all  these  now? 

Many  of  these  things  become  fashionable  again  at 
intervals;  hollyhocks,  for  instance,  which  were  banished 
from  flower-beds  as  coarse  and  vulgar,  when  dahlias  came 
in,  are  now  appreciated  again  and  sold  by  florists.  Lady's- 
delights,  or  Johnny-jump-ups  return  again,  enlarged  and 
improved,  as  pansics,  — and  so  on.  But  London  pride 
has  disappeared  altogether;  mallows  are  seldom  seen,  and 
gauze-flowers  are  rarer  now  than  orchids.  Occasionally 
one  sees  a  bush  of  southernwood,  whose  good  bitter 
smell  makes  a  graybeard  almost  homesick.  Does  he  not 
remember  the  dear  old  grandmother  who  in  the  summer 
Sundays,  always  had  a  sprig  of  it,  and  a  single  spicy  pink 
or  two,  for  a  "meeting"  nosegay?  They  were  always 
nosegays  in  those  days  —  there  were  no  bouquets.  It  is 


THE  SECOND  TRIANGULAR.  Ill 

doubtful  if  a  bunch  of  those  sweet  old-fashioned  flowers- 
would  answer  to  the  name  of  a  bouquet,  if  one  should 
call  it  so  till  doomsday. 

But  many  of  these  old  friends  have  disappeared  utterly. 
Where,  for  instance,  is  the  old-fashioned  blue-bell  bush, 
which  used  to  grow  a  tall,  strong  plant  by  the  garden 
pickets  —  a  plant  that  had  odd,  drooping,  robin's-egg  blue 
flowers,  monopetalous,  shading  down  to  a  yellow-white  in 
the  centre,  and  with  a  calyx  like  that  of  the  ground- 
cherry?  This  plant  loved  the  shady  side  of  the  garden, 
and  even  nourished  under  the  crab-apple  tree;  and  its 
buds  had  the  habit,  always  delightful  to  children,  of 
being  filled  with  water.  When  a  bud  was  nearly  ready 
to  bloom,  a  slight  pressure  by  a  small  thumb  and  finger 
would  cause  it  to  explode  and  shoot  forth  a  quantity  of 
pellucid  water,  like  hoarded  dewdrops.  This  trifling 
did  not  seem  to  affect  the  coming  flower  in  the  least, 
which  bloomed  the  next  morning  as  though  nothing 
had  happened. 

What  has  become  of  the  blue-bells  ?  And  where  is 
the  cumfrey  ?  And  the  prince's  feather  ?  And  who  has 
any  old-fashioned  mallows  ?  Or  star-of -Bethlehem  ?  And 
how  far  must  one  search  to  find  a  camomile-bed  ?  And 
where  do  these  dear  old  things  go  when  they  go  out  of 
fashion  ? 

"I  should  like  to  go  into  one  of  the  old  gardens 
where  all  those  things  grow,"  said  Bob ;  "  and  it 
reminds  me  of  a  piece  of  verse  which  I  have  here,  and 
will  read  to  you.  It  speaks  of  several  of  the  old-fash 
ioned  plants  which  you  have  just  mentioned." 


112  THE   TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 

GRANDMOTHER'S  GARDEN. 
Grandmother's  garden  was  brave  to  see, 

Gorgeous  with  old-time  plants  and  blooms, 
All  too  common  and  cheap  to  be 

Grown  in  modern  parterres  and  rooms; 
Old  traditional  herbs  and  flowers, 

Some  for  pleasure  and  some  for  need, 
Gifted,  haply,  with  wondrous  powers,— 

Hoot,  or  petal,  or  bark,  or  seed. 

All  old  fashions  of  leaf  and  root 

Grew  there,  cherished  for  show  or  use; 
Currant-bushes  with  clustered  fruit 

Eed  as  garnets,  and  full  of  juice; 
Tiger-lilies  with  beaded  stalks, 

Balm,  and  basil,  and  bitter  rue, 
Gay  nasturtiums  and  four  o'clocks  — 

Grandmother's  garden  was  fair  to  view. 

Pinks  —  how  rich  in  their  stately  prime  I 

Filled  the  air  with  a  rare  delight; 
Lavender  blended  with  sage  and  thyme ; 

Lilacs,  purple  and  milky  white, 
Met  and  mingled  and  bloomed  as  one 

Over  the  path,  they  grew  so  tall; 
And  tulip-torches,  in  wind  and  sun, 

Flamed  and  flared  by  the  southern  wall. 

Periwinkles  with  trailing  vines, 
Lordly  lilies  with  creamy  tint, 

Bachelor's  buttons  and  columbines, 
Proud  sweet-williams  and  odorous  mint; 

Heavy  peonies,  burning  red, 
Wonders  of  lush,  redundant  bloom, 


THE  SECOND   TRIANGULAR.  113 

Longed  for  a  wider  space  to  spread, 
And  flushed  the  redder  for  lack  of  room. 

Brilliant  asters  their  prim  heads  tossed ; 

Dark  blue  monkshood,  and  hollyhocks 
Smiling  fearless  at  autumn's  frost, 

Waved  and  nodded  along  the  walks; 
Love-lies-bleeding  forever  drooped; 

Disks  of  sun-flowers,  bright  and  broad, 
Watched  like  sentries;  and  fennel  stooped 

Over  immortal  Aaron's-rod. 

Cumfrey,  dropping  its  waxen  flowers, 

Purple  gooseberries,  over-ripe  — 
Lady-grass,  that  I  searched  for  hours, 

Vainly  trying  to  match  a  stripe, — 
Pansies,  bordering  all  the  beds, 

Ladies'  delights  for  the  children's  sake, 
Poppies,  nodding  their  sleepy  heads, 

And  yellow  marigolds  wide  awake. 

Morning-glories,  whose  trumpets  rung 

Resonant  with  the  rifling  bees, 
Daffodils,  born  when  spring  was  young; 

Yain  narcissus,  and  gay  sweet-peas 
Clinging  close,  but  with  bright  wings  spread 

W^ide,  like  butterflies  just  alight; 
Gauze-flowers  fragile,  to  sunrise  wed, 

And  bashful  primrose  that  bloomed  at  night. 

Kich  syringas,  all  honey-sweet, 

Trim  carnations  of  tenderest  pink, 
Bluebells,  spite  of  the  noonday  heat 

Holding  dew  for  the  birds  to  drink: 


114  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Marjoram,  hyssop  and  caraway, 

Damask-roses  and  mignonette; 
Ah!  sometimes  at  this  distant  day 

I  can  fancy  I  smell  them  yet. 

I  have  a  garden  of  prouder  claims, 

Full  of  novelties  bright  and  rare, 
Modern  flowers  with  stately  names 

Flaunt  their  wonderful  beauty  there ; 
Yet  in  threading  its  brilliant  maze, 

Oft  my  heart,  with  a  homesick  thrill 
Whispers,  dreaming  of  early  days, 

"  Grandmother's  garden  was  lairer  still  I  " 

"  That  is  comprehensive,"  said  the  mother.  "  Bob 
is  always  fond  of  any  tiling  in  the  nature  of  an  inven 
tory.  And  thinking  of  old-fashioned  things  and  per 
sons,  reminds  me  of  some  verse  which  I  have  here, 
that  seems  to  huve  been  written  about  one  of  the  old 
citizens  of  this  town,  whom  I  used  often  to  see,  years 
ago.  He  must  have  been  nearly  eighty  years  old,  but 
his  cheeks  were  always  as  rosy  as  a  boy's."  And  she 
read  the  following  lines : 

OLD  ROSES. 

There  is  one  I  often  meet 

As  I  pass  along  the  street, — 
One  upon  whose  furrowed  face 
Three-score  years  have  left  their  trace, 

Yet  his  strong  and  upright  form 

Has  not  bowed  to  wind  or  storm, 
Nor  his  hair,  though  touched  with  rime, 
Fallen  beneath  the  scythe  of  Time. 


THE   SECOND  TEIANGULAB.  115 

And  I  said,  the  other  day, 
Seeing  him  across  the  way  — 

Speaking  half  to  one  who  stood 

Near  me,  in  a  musing  mood  — 
"  Lo,  how  lightly,  it  appears 
On  his  forehead  fall  the  years  ! 

Youth's  unfrozen  blood  still  speaks 

Eloquently  in  his  cheeks, — 

"  And  their  well-kept  ruddiness, 
Somewhat  withered,  I  confess, — 

Looks  as  last  year's  roses  look, 

Pressed  and  dried  within  a  book; 
Still,  with  all  their  freshness  fled, 
Keeping  all  their  olden  red:  — 

Or,  again,  it  seems  to  me, 

As  I  look  more  carefully, 

11  Like  the  wrinkled  crimson  rind 
Of  the  apples  which  we  find, 

As  we  peer  with  curious  eyes 

Into  last  year's  granaries, 
Or  some  dusty  storehouse,  where 
Hidden  from  the  light  and  air, 

They  have  lain  the  winter  through 

Losing  everything  but  hue ;  — 

"  So,  methinks,  the  withered  cheek 
Of  whose  rosiness  we  speak, 
Keeps,  unblanched,  the  ruddy  glow 
Of  the  bloom  of  long  ago." 
"Nay,"  spoke  one  who,  waiting,  heard 
Smilingly  my  every  word  — 

One  whose  arch,  half-serious  eyes 
Answer  ere  her  voice  replies ;  — 


116  THE   TEIANGTJLAE   SOCIETY. 

"Nay,— bethink  you,"— thug  she  said, 

"  This  is  not  the  lingering  red 
Of  his  early  morning  years 
Which  upon  his  face  appears ;  — 

"  'T  is  the  ruddy  sunset  gleam 
Lighting  up  life's  darkening  stream, 
'T  is  the  slight  return  which  age 
Makes  for  youth's  lost  heritage;  — 
'T  is  the  light  reflected  o'er 
From  a  brighter,  rosier  shore ; 
Or,  to  suit  your  playful  mood 
With  a  gay  similitude,  — 

"  When  October's  yellow  hair 
Brightening  all  the  hazy  air, 
Half  disputes  her  prophecy 
Of  the  winter-time  to  be, 
You  have  marked  the  various  hues 
Which  the  forest-monarchs  choose  ? 
You  have  seen  them  all  arrayed 
In  their  robes  of  light  and  shade  ? 

"  When  the  sharp  and  frosty  airs 
Chill  the  sweet  woods,  unawares, 
And  to  pallid  whiteness  bleach 
All  the  tresses  of  the  beech, 
How  the  elm  grows  all  alight, 
Sallow  with  consumptive  blight  — 
And  the  willow,  blanched  and  sere, 
Drops  its  leaves  in  trembling  fear;  — 

"  And  the  poplar's  faded  leaf 
Quivers  with  its  whispered  grief,  — 


THE   SECOND   TRIANGULAR.  117 

While  the  birch-tree's  airy  limbs 

Wave  to  autumn's  funeral-hymns  — 
And  the  oak,  with  lofty  pride 
Yielding,  though  unterrified, 

Tones  his  glossy  greenness  down 

To  the  dignity  of  brown ;  — 

"  But  the  maple  dons  a  blush 
Rosier  than  the  richest  flush 

Which  in  summer  glows  and  thrills 

All  along  the  sunrise  hills;  — 
Breaking  into  sudden  bloom 
As  from  out  his  sombre  tomb 

Bursts  the  newborn  butterfly 

Gorgeous  with  his  brilliant  dye. 

"  Wherefore,  trifler,  we  will  say 
Of  the  sire  across  the  way  — 

He  is  like  the  maple  tree 

Growing  old  so  rosily  — 
Borrowing  nothing  from  his  youth  — 
Age  is  wealthier  far,  in  truth; 

Blooming,  when  the  summer  's  past, 

Brightly,  brightlier,  to  the  last !  " 

"I  don't  think  I  care  very  much  for  that,"  said 
Bob,  frankly.  "  The  truth  is,  I  am  getting  sleepy, 
and  so  I  will  just  read  this  one  short  article,  which  is 
a  good  one  to  finish  the  session." 

BED-TIME. 

The  children's  bed-time  hour  struck  long  ago, 
But  all  too  short  to  them  the  evening  seems ; 
They  linger  by  the  fire,  although  they  know 


118  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Their  slices  should  all  be  standing  in  a  row, 
And  each  bright  head  be  busy  with  its  dreams. 

They  dread  the  bed's  soft  chill,  the  pillow's  cold, 

And  make  the  plea  so  often  made  before; 
With  small  excuse  and  pretexts  manifold, 
They  stop  to  hear  some  well-known  story  told, 
Or  play,  perhaps,  some  worn-out  game  once  more. 

Yet  in  the  morning,  when  the  mother's  call 
Eings  up  the  stairway,  not  a  voice  replies; 

Last  evening's  interests  are  forgotten  all; 

Each  hides  his  face,  or  turns  it  to  the  wall, 
Nor  once  uplifts  the  lids  of  sleepy  eyes. 

In  vain  to  tempt  them  forth  to  sport  and  light, 
The  wakening  sunbeams  through  the  curtains  peep; 

The  world  has  lost  the  charm  it  held  last  night; 

Stories,  books,  games,  are  all  forgotten  quite, 
Nor  work  nor  play  is  half  so  sweet  as  sleep. 

With  shoulders  bowed,  and  aches  in  every  limb, 
My  neighbor  stoops  beneath  his  eighty  years; 

Slow  is  his  step,  and  every  sense  is  dim; 

How  can  the  world  keep  any  charm  for  him, 
Or  life  be  anything  but  pains  and  fears  ? 

Yet  still  he  grasps  it  with  unyielding  hold, 

And  when  his  hour  comes,  chooses  not  to  know 
Still  waits  to  hear  the  worn-out  stories  told, 
Still  counts  his  gains,  still  notes  the  price  of  gold, 
And  plays  the  game  that  tired  him  Ion-  ao-o. 


THE   SECOND   TRIANGULAR. 

But  when  he  finds,  beyond  the  hap  and  harm 

Which  ever  wait  upon  this  mortal  breath, 
That  what  he  shrunk  from,  with  a  vague  alarm, 
Was  a  kind  healer,  bringing  peace  and  balm- 
IIc  will,  mayhap,  grow  so  in  love  with  death, 

That  when  the  morning-angers  pinions  sweep, 
With  wakening  touch,  across  his  quiet  breast, 
To  rouse  him  from  his  slumber  soft  and  deep, — 
He  will  but  murmur,  in  his  happy  sleep, 

"  Eveu  heaven  itself  is  not  so  sweet  as  rest  I  " 


XL 

THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  SO  HAPPY 
THAT  — 

"SOMEHOW,  all  the  stories  seem  to  be  about  un 
happy  people,"  said  Bob,  meditatively,  after  Brunette 
had  been  telling  him  a  long  history.  "  Why  is  it  that 
many  of  the  people  in  stories  are  unhapm- ? 
And  those  who  are  not  miserable,  generally  die,  or'get 
killed  —  why  is  it  ?  " 

"  One  reason  why,"  said  Brunette,  who  had  a  happy 
faculty  of  explanation,  "is  that  you  are  never  willing 
t  a  story  stop   in   the  right  place.     You  ahvays 
want  the  story  '  finished,'  as  you  call  it.     When  I  tell 
you  a  story,  and  try  to  leave  the  hero  of  it  in  felicity 
with  everything  to  his  mind,  you  always  ask, «  Well 
what  became  of  him  ?  '  " 

"It  was  just  so  when  you  were  a  little  trot,"  said 

the  mother  -  - .  What  becomed  of  him,  mamma  ?  >  was 

always  the  question,  if  I  finished  a  story  without  bury. 

ing  the  hero.     All  of  Mother  Goose's  personages  and 

animals  had  to  have  satisfactory  ends  fitted  to  them- 

a  work  which  required  not  only  some  ingenuity,  but 

an  excellent  memory;  for  if,  after  haying  once  stated 

Jenny  Wren  died  of  rheumatism  of  the  heart, 

Doctor  Foster,  who  went  to  Gloucester,  fell  a 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  SO  HAPPY  THAT —      121 

victim  to  water  on  the  brain,  I  afterward,  through 
stress  of  preoccupation  or  forgetfulness,  remarked 
that  she  perished  of  measles,  and  he  of  cerebro-spintil 
meningitis,  I  was  immediately  brought  up  with  a 
round  turn.  <  You  told  it  different  another  time ! '  was 
the  accusation.  Talk  of  the  stories  of  a  thousand 
and  one  nights !  That  number  of  nights  would  n't 
make  quite  thirty-four  months  —  not  three  years ;  and 
my  term  of  telling  stories  to  Bob  was  longer  than 
that." 

"If  you  would  n't  always  insist  on  <  What  became 
of  him  ? '  I  could  tell  you  ever  so  many  happy  sto 
ries,"  said  Brunette ;  "  but  so  long  as  nothing  ever 
does  finally  become  of  anybody  excepting  death  — 
(and  for  that  matter,  death  is  more  becoming  to  many 
persons  than  anything  in  their  lives)  I  don't  see  nny 
way  to  finish  your  stories  satisfactorily,  excepting  to 
say  — *  And  so  he,  she,  or  it,  as  the  case  may  be,  died 
and  went  to  heaven.'  I  'in  sure  that  's  a  happy 
enough  ending." 

u  Well,"  said  Bob,  who  had  listened  patiently  to  all 
this  torrent  of  censure,  "  I  should  really  like  to  hear 
a  story  about  somebody  who  was  happy  —  real  happy, 
so  that  he  did  n't  want  something  different." 

"  I  think  that  frame  of  mind  would  be  as  fatal  to  a 
human  being  as  prussic  acid,"  said  Brunette. 

"  I  heard  of  a  man  once  who  was  perfectly  happy," 
said  the  mother,  brightening,  —  "  and  he  lived  over 
on  the  Cape,  too  —  not  so  far  away  from  this  very  sit- 
6 


122  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

ting.     He  was  happy  —  so  happy  that  he  actually  — " 
She  stopped  short,  and  her  smile  faded. 

"  Tell  the  story,  tell  it ! "  cried  Bob,  "  the  story  of 
the  man  who  was  perfectly  happy !  Tell  it,  and  I 
won't  ask  what  became  of  him,"  he  urged,  moving  his 
chair  nearer  to  his  mother's,  and  preparing  to  give  her 
his  whole  attention. 

"  I  fancy  you  '11  not  need  to  ask,"  murmured  Bru 
nette,  who  had  heard  the  story,  or  a  part  of  it,  long 
before.  "  But  come,  mother,  let  's  hear  the  story  of 
the  man  who  was  perfectly  happy.  And  please  make 
it  as  interesting  as  you  can,  —  for  happy  people  are 
not  generally  interesting." 

"  It  is  n't  much  of  a  story,"  said  the  mother,  "  and 
I  can't  affirm  that  it  is  authentic,  but  I  will  tell  it  as 
nearly  as  possible  as  it  was  told  me.  Well,  years  ago, 
there  lived  a  poor  boy  — " 

"  Now  if  you  could  only  fix  on  a  date  when  there 
did  n't  live  a  poor  boy,"  said  Brunette,  "  the  story 
would  be  much  more  entertaining.  The  world  is  full 
of  times  when  there  live  poor  boys." 

t;  Nevertheless,  I  must  tell  the  story  as  I  heard  it. 
There  was  a  poor  boy,  and  he  lived  over  on  the  Cape. 
His  parents  were  not  only  poor,  which  is  bad  enough, 
but  his  father  was  shiftless,  which  is  -worse,  and 
drunken,  which  is  worst.  Not  much  headway  can  a 
poor,  discouraged,  hard-worked  woman  make  against 
a  shiftless  and  drunken  husband ;  and  so  the  poor  son 
of  this  poor  woman  had  a  hard  time.  Poor  clothes, 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  SO  HAPPY  THAT —     123 

poor  food,  poor  shelter,  and  a  poor  prospect  ahead  of 
him.  I  am  afraid  he  went  hungry  sometimes  when  he 
was  little,  and  his  mother  could  not  get  odd  jobs 
enough  to  feed  him  comfortably.  As  he  grew  older, 
he  began  also  to  do  odd  jobs  for  the  neighbors,  most 
of  whom  were  much  better  off  than  he.  Among 
these  neighbors,  and  living  not  far  away,  was  the  fam 
ily  of  a  well-to-do  ship-master.  This  was  long  ago, 
in  the  days  when  to  be  a  ship-master,  sailing  out  of 
Portland,  meant  to  be  a  wealthy  man,  to  own  the 
whole  or  a  part  of  a  vessel,  and  to  go  to  far,  rich  coun 
tries,  and  bring  home  wonderful  and  curious  things. 
This  special  ship-master  had,  among  his  valuables,  and 
curiosities,  and  good  things  of  all  sorts,  a  very  charm 
ing  and  lovely  little  daughter.  Whether  she  really 
was  the  most  beautiful  little  creature  that  the  sun 
ever  shone  on,  I  know  not,  but  the  poor  boy  thought 
so,  and  so  we  will  take  it  for  granted.  But  she  was 
rich,  and  he  was  poor ;  she  was  clad  in  costly 
garments,  while  he  was  coarsely  and  insufficiently 
dressed ;  she  fared  delicately  every  day,  while  he  ate 
what  he  could  get,  and  was  thankful  for  enough  of 
anything.  And  the  poor  boy  worshipped  her  in 
silence  and  afar  off,  never  daring  to  approach  or 
speak  to  her,  although  he  often  saw  her  while  he  was 
engaged  in  odd  jobs  about  her  father's  house  or  gar 
den.  And  there  grew  up  in  the  heart  of  this  poor 
boy  a  strange,  wild,  unreasonable,  ambitious  longing 
to  raise  himself,  to  better  and  improve  and  cultivate 
and  beautify  himself,  until  he  might  be  worthy  to 


124  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

walk  on  the  same  level  with  the  rich  and  beautiful 
little  girl  who  seemed  to  him  a  veritable  angel  on 
earth.  He  made  the  most  of  his  meagre  opportuni 
ties  for  schooling ;  he  picked  up  scraps  of  knowledge 
wherever  he  had  the  chance ;  he  learned  the  speech 
and  manners  of  educated  people ;  and  he  squared  his 
whole  conduct  by  the  supposed  taste  of  the  charm 
ing  little  girl  who,  perhaps,  hardly  knew  of  his 
existence." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  this  hero  of  yours  was  a 
rather  precociously  sentimental  youth,"  said  Brunette, 
who  was  in  a  severe  mood. 

"Sentimentality  is  an  affectation  of  sentiment," 
said  the  mother.  <k  No,  he  was  not  sentimental  —  he 
never  mentioned  his  youthful  dream  through  all  his 
boyhood,  even  to  his  own  mother.  And  as  for  pre 
cocity  —  I  am  not  sure  but  it  would  improve  most 
boys,  if  they  would  make  up  their  minds  to  do  noth 
ing  that  a  well-bred,  pure-minded,  well-behaved  girl 
would  disapprove  or  dislike.  At  all  events,  this  plan 
had  a  very  good  effect  upon  my  poor  boy.  He  never 
stole  or  cheated,  because  he  knew  she  would  not  like 
it ;  he  never  learned  to  smoke  or  chew  tobacco, 
because  he  was  sure  it  would  be  disgusting  to  her ; 
he  never  tortured  insects  or  animals,  or  robbed  birds'- 
nests;  he  never  learned  to  drink  and  gamble,  and 
mingle  with  bad  company,  as  he  grew  older,  because 
he  knew  it  would  put  him  farther  away  from  her, 
I  presume,  too,  although  I  do  not  know,  that  he 
refr.dned  from  spitting  on  public  steps  and  stairs 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  SO  HAPPY  THAT —     125 

where  ladies  go  up  and  down,  —  that  he  avoided 
standing  at  the  corners  of  streets,  and  peeping  under 
every  parasol  that  passed  by ;  that  he  eschewed  dis 
cussing  the  personal  appearance  and  probable  senti 
ments  of  every  young  girl  th;it  he  saw ;  and  that  he 
was  as  civil  to  a  woman  who  was  old  enough  to  be 
his  mother  or  grandmother,  as  to  damsels  of  his  own 
age.  Of  these  things  I  feel  sure,  although  nobody 
ever  told  me  so.  I  only  judge  so  from  his  other  con 
duct,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  prospered." 

"  And  so  he  really  did  prosper  ?  "  asked  Bob. 

"  Look  out,  Bob,"  said  his  sister,  "  you  '11  presently 
be  asking,  '  Well,  what  became  of  him  ? '  It  is  odd, 
though,  that  he  prospered ;  so  good  a  boy  would  natu 
rally  be  a  shining  mark  for  misfortunes  of  all  sorts." 

"  I  should  think  a  boy  who  behaved  as  well  as  that 
would  have  been  awfully  lonesome,"  said  Bob,  gravely. 
"Did  n't  he  ever  have  any  fun  ?  " 

"Bob  seems  to  have  the  truly  masculine  idea  of 
fun,"  laughed  his  sister.  "  Bob,  do  you  really  suppose 
that  bad,  wicked,  cruel,  rude,  and  disobedient  boys  are 
happier  than  —  than  you  are,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Bob,  doubtfully.  "  I 
know  two  or  three  bad  boys,  who  are  always  in  dis 
grace  at  school ;  and  a  great  deal  of  the  time  when 
they  are  out  of  it,  they  seem  to  be  in  hot  water  of 
some  sort.  They  don't  look  happy,  that  's  a  fact ; 
they  don't  act  very  happy ;  but  they  are  always  tell 
ing  what  lots  of  fun  they  have.  They  say  they  're 
happy." 


126  THE   TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 

Brunette  laughed.  "  You  remind  me  of  the  maple- 
sugar  man,"  said  she.  "  Once  in  the  beginning  of  a 
Vermont  « sugar-season,'  the  owner  of  a  maple-orchard 
made  his  annual  appearance  in  a  Connecticut  river 
village,  with  small  cakes  of  sugar  for  sale.  The  sugar 
was  of  very  poor  quality,  having  been  badly  burned 
in  the  making,  as  was  gently  intimated  by  his  custom 
ers.  '  Oh,  no,'  he  replied,  '  'taint  scorched  a  mite.' 
c  But  look  at  it,  smell  it,  taste  it,'  persisted  the  would- 
be  purchasers,  '  it  's  black,  and  smoky,  and  bitter  — 
it  's  certainly  scorched.'  SI  know,'  replied  he,  looking 
at  it  closely,  '  it  looks  scorched,  and  '  —  with  a  little 
sniff  — '  it  smells  scorched,  and,'  —  tasting  a  bit  — '  it 
certain  does  taste  scorched,  —  but  it  aint  scorched  a 
mite.'  Your  bad  boys  are  like  this,  with  a  difference. 
They  don't  look  happy,  nor  act  happy,  but  they  are 
happy,  nevertheless,  becnuse  they  say  so.  But  looks 
and  deeds  often  speak  louder  than  words,  my  blessed 
Bob,  and  it  is  n't  always  certain  that  people,  young  or 
old,  have  s  lots  of  fun  '  because  they  say  they  have." 

"  Who  's.  telling  the  story  ? "  suddenly  asked  Bob, 
who  was  apt  to  grow  restive  under  his  sister's  disser 
tations  on  questions  of  abstract  morality.  "  Mother, 
where  did  you  leave  your  poor  boy  ?  " 

"  Trying  to  live  up  to  an  ideal,  under  difficulties," 
said  the  mother.  "Of  course  he  was  continually  study 
ing  how  to  advance  and  improve  himself,  and  better 
his  condition,  and  it  naturally  enough  occurred  to  him 
that  if  he,  too,  could  in  course  of  time  become  a  ship 
master,  he  should  have  a  much  better  chance  of  mak- 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  SO  HAPPY  THAT —     127 

ing  the  acquaintance  of  the  marvellous  little  girl,  than 
he  could  gain  in  any  other  way.  So,  having  earned 
all  he  could  earn,  and  learned  all  he  could  learn,  at 
home,  he  shipped  in  some  humble  capacity  on  board  a 
merchantman,  and  went  to  sea.  There  is  no  record 
or  tradition  of  his  voyages,  or  of  how  seasick  and 
homesick  and  heartsick  he  may  have  been.  No  doubt 
he  was  wretched  enough.  Poor  and  friendless  little 
boys,  or  boys  of  any  size,  have  a  hard  enough  time  at 
sea,  learning  to  be  sailors.  It  's  rather  pathetic,  I 
think  —  the  idea  of  that  poor  little  fellow,  perhaps 
fourteen  or  fifteen  years  old,  away  out  on  the  windy 
ocean,  pulling  icy  ropes,  and  tugging  at  frozen  sails, 
and  keeping  his  forlorn  heart  warm  with  the  deter 
mination  to  make  a  man  of  himself,  a  true,  wTise, 
honest,  clean  and  good  man,  —  for  the  sake  of  making 
the  acquaintance  of  the  loveliest  little  girl  in  the 
world." 

"  But  how  did  he  know  he  should  ever  see  her 
again  ? "  queried  Bob,  who  always  walked  round 
everything,  and  looked  at  every  side  of  it  — "  how 
did  he  know  that  she  would  n't  have  the  measles 
and  die,  or  move  away,  or  be  killed  by  lightning  or 
something?" 

"  He  did  n't,"  replied  the  mother.  "  He  had  to 
take  his  chances,  like  the  rest  of  us,  when  we  make 
plans,  and  labor  toward  the  fulfilment  of  our  hopes 
and  ambitions.  And  he  probably  did  not  propose  to 
manage  anything  which  wras  quite  out  of  his  power. 
He  was  intent  on  doing  what  was  possible  for  him  to 


128  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

do,  toward  the  realization  of  his  early  dream.  If  he 
was  the  boy  I  fancy  him  to  have  been,  he  did  not  bor 
row  trouble,  or  worry  about  things  which  he  could 
not  control,  or  cross  his  bridges  until  he  came  to  them. 
In  short,  he  seems  to  have  thought  that  if  he  sur 
mounted  the  principal  obstacles,  conquered  the  great 
est  difficulties,  and  did  the  hardest  part  of  the  work, 
Providence  was  amply  capable  of  accomplishing  the 
remainder.  Voyage  after  voyage  he  went,  growing 
wiser  and  stronger  and  more  manly  continually,  em 
ploying  all  his  corners  of  time  in  adding  to  his  stock 
of  knowledge,  and  carefully  avoiding  all  places,  com 
panions,  habits  and  associations  which  could  lessen 
his  self-respect  and  derogate  from  the  high  standard 
of  manhood  which  he  had  set  for  himself.  Of  course 
he  had  his  drawbacks  and  discouragements ;  of  course 
sometimes  his  progress  seemed  slow,  his  hope  wavered, 
and  his  trials  seemed  greater  than  he  could  bear ;  but 
he  never  really  faltered  from  his  first  purpose,  or 
ceased  from  his  upward  struggle  toward  the  loveliest 
little  girl  in  the  world." 

"  But  all  this  time,  did  he  never  speak  with  her  ?  " 
asked  impatient  Brunette.  u  When  he  returned  from 
his  voyages,  did  n't  he  go  to  see  her,  and  tell  her  his 
purpose,  and  assure  himself  of  her  sympathy?" 

"  Doubtless  he  saw  her  whenever  he  came  home,  — 
as  he  had  always  seen  her,  by  chance,  as  she  walked 
the  same  streets,  and  perhaps  went  to  the  same 
church.  But  it  does  not  appear  that  he  ever  had 
even  a  speaking  acquaintance  with  her,  until  he  had 
become  mate  of  a  vessel." 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  SO  HAPPY  THAT —     129 

"  And  then  I  suppose  he  made  love  to,  and  married 
the  loveliest  little  girl  in  the  world,"  said  Brunette. 

"Don't  hurry  him.  so,"  said  the  mother.  "  No,  he 
did  n't." 

"  I  thought  this  was  to  be  a  story  about  somebody 
who  was  perfectly  happy,"  said  Bob,  "  and  it  does  n't 
seem  to  me  that  your  poor  boy  was  happy  worth  a 
cent." 

"  I  did  n't  say  he  was  born  happy  —  I  was  only  tell 
ing  you  how  he  came  to  be  perfectly  happy  —  so 
happy  that  it  positively  — "  and  the  mother  checked 
herself  again.  "When  the  poor  boy  first  began  to 
worship  and  dream  about  the  loveliest  little  girl  in 
the  world,  it  is  n't  probable  that  he  had  any  more  idea 
of  winning  her  for  a  sweetheart,  than  the  old  fire-wor 
shippers  had  of  making  love  to  the  sun.  But  at  some 
period  between  that  time  and  the  time  when  he 
became  mate,  it  is  evident  that  he  must  have  enter 
tained  such  a  hope.  Whether  it  occurred  to  him 
suddenly,  and  showed  him  as  by  the  sudden  flash  of 
a  meteor,  the  meaning  of  his  long  unquestioning  fealty 
to  her,  or  whether  it  grew  slowly  and  naturally  out  of 
his  childish  admiration,  and  loyalty,  and  singleness  of 
heart,  who  knows?  Nobody  ever  knew  excepting 
himself  and  the  loveliest  little  girl  in  the  world. 

"  After  he  had  achieved  the  position  of  mate,  he  was 
at  home  in  his  native  place  for  a  little  while,  and 
during  the  time,  he  saw  her  frequently  at  the  neigh 
borhood  gatherings,  and  made  some  progress  in  her 
acquaintance,  having  made  himself,  as  he  believed, 
6* 


130  THE  TKIANGULAE   SOCIETY. 

worthy  to  touch  her  hand  and  speak  to  her.  Indeed, 
it  seems  probable  that  he  told  her  something  of  his 
childish  reverence  and  admiration  for  her,  and  of  the 
long,  toilsome,  lonesome  years  through  which  he  had 
remembered  her.  But  if  he  did,  nothing  came  of  it 
at  present,  for  when  he  asked  her  father  if  he  might 
try  to  win  her,  that  pompous  and  purse-proud  old  per 
sonage  promptly  told  him  that  he  was  not  rich  enough 
to  be  eligible  as  a  son-in-law  ;  that  he  must  be  master, 
and  at  least  part  owner  of  a  ship,  before  he  could  be 
allowed  even  to  ask  the  favor  of  the  loveliest  little 
girl  in  the  world.  And  so  he  carried  his  heavy  heart 
to  sea  aGrain." 

O 

u  I  should  have  thought  that  hope  deferred  would 
have  made  his  heart  sick,"  said  Brunette;  "so  sick 
that  he  would  have  thrown  up  the  whole  plan." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  appreciate  my  poor  boy,"  said  the 
mother ;  "  he  had  a  constant  and  loyal  soul,  which  a 
few  years  more  or  less  could  not  change  or  discourage. 
I  wish  there  were  more  of  them.  But  by  this  time 
some  of  the  neighbors  had  guessed  at  his  secret  — 
and  some  of  those  people  who  are  so  fond  of  telling 
ill  news  that  they  will  even  write  a  letter  to  do  it, 
reported  to  him  from  time  to  time,  stories  of  the  num 
ber  of  suitors  who  hovered  about  the  fine  house  of 
the  wealthy  ship-master,  and  of  how  much  the  lovely 
daughter  was  sought  and  admired,  and  various  other 
matters  which  did  not  conduce  to  his  peace  of  mind  — 
for  by  this  time  he  understood  his  whole  heart,  and 
felt  pure  that  no  money,  nor  position,  nor  power,  nor 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  SO  HAPPY  THAT—  131 

possibility,  would  be  worth  anything  to  him,  without 
the  presence  of  the  loveliest  little  girl  in  the  world. 
And  as  she  was  in  no  way  bound  to  him  —  indeed,  it 
seems  doubtful  whether  she  knew  that  he  was  in  love 
with  her,  or  had  consulted  her  father  on  the  subject  — 
of  course  my  poor  boy,  now  a  fine,  tall,  handsome 
man,  with  a  bronzed  and  bearded  face,  a  pair  of  fear 
less  and  candid  eyes,  and  a  voice  like  a  north-wester, 
may  have  been  a  good  deal  troubled  about  the  dear 
inaccessible  sweetheart  (that 's  a  fine  old  word,  and 
I  like  it  better  than  any  modern  word  which  has 
taken  its  place),  away  up  on  the  coast  of  Maine,  — 
especially  as  her  father  had  cruelly  told  him  that  he 
had  '  other  views  '  for  her.  In  this  respect,  probably 
the  last  years  of  his  probation  were  the  hardest.  But, 
to  shorten  a  long  story,  he  by  and  by  found  himself 
in  the  position  he  coveted.  He  was  master  of  a  ves 
sel,  of  which  he  owned  a  large  part.  He  made  fortu 
nate  voyages,  and  accumulated  money.  And  when 
there  could  be  no  farther  objection  to  him  as  a  son-in- 
law  on  account  of  his  poverty,'  he  once  more  asked 
her  father's  permission  to  approach  the  loveliest  little 
girl  in  the  world. 

"  This  time  it  was  not  refused,  and  she,  although  she 
did  not  know  how  many  years  she  had  been  the  hope 
and  guiding-star  of  his  life,  inclined  favorably  to  the 
wooing  of  the  handsome,  intelligent  and  honorable 
young  ship-captain,  and  in  due  time  consented  to  be 
his  wife." 

"Of   course,"   said    Brunette,   with    a   smothered 


132  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

yawn,  "  we  all  expected  that.     It  's  the  natural  des 
tiny  of  poor  boys." 

"  Do  for  mercy's  sake  let  mother  finish  her  story," 
exclaimed  Bob,  "  and  show  me  how  this  man  was  hap 
pier  than  any  other  man." 

"  I  judge  he  was  happier  than  most  men,"  said  the 
mother,  placidly,  "  because  he  was  evidently  so  happy 
that  it  —  "  and  for  the  third  time  she  checked  herself, 
and  left  the  sentence  unfinished.  "  Well,  the  wed 
ding  was  a  great  occasion.  There  was  of  course  a 
famous  banquet,  with  all  manner  of  delicacies  and 
wines  —  and  there  were  flowers,  and  music,  and 
satins,  and  laces,  and  jewels,  and  all  the  beautiful  and 
costly  things  for  which  the  Cape  is  so  celebrated  — 
but  nothing  was  so  beautiful  as  the  loveliest  little  girl 
in  the  world,  and  nobody  was  so  happy  as  the  hand 
some  bridegroom,  as,  like  young  Lochinvar,  he  trod  a 
measure  with  his  bride." 

44  What  is  treading  a  measure  ?  "  asked  Bob.  "  I  'vo 
heard  Brunette  sing  that  song  lots  of  times,  but  I 
never  knew  what  it  meant." 

"  Grandmother  used  to  tell  of  people  who  could  run 
around  all  day  in  a  half-pint  dipper,"  said  Brunette. 
"  I  should  call  that  treading  a  measure  —  a  very  small 
•  one." 

Bob  glanced  at  her  with  speechless  indignation. 
"And  then  ?"  said  he,  turning  to  his  mother. 

"  And  then,  late  at  night,  all  the  guests  departed, 
and  the  brilliant  scene  grew  dim  —  and  the  bride 
groom  sat  down  by  his  bride  alone,  and  beginning  the 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  SO  HAPPY  THAT —     133 

recital  at  his  childhood  —  the  time  when  he  was  a 
poor  little  half-fed,  half-clad  urchin,  and  was  hired  to 
weed  onion-beds,  and  shovel  snow  for  her  father  —  he 
told  her  the  whole  long  story  of  his  life — his  admira 
tion  of  her  as  a  little  child,  his  dreams,  his  hopes,  his 
ambitions,  his  struggles  and  temptations  and  hard 
ships  and  trials,  through  all  the  long  years  of  his  labor 
to  make  himself  worthy  of  her,  the  loveliest  little  girl 
in  the  world.  « And  at  last,'  said  he,  putting  his  arms 
about  her,  and  holding  her  close  to  his  most  faithful, 
clean,  patient  and  steadfast  heart  — '  at  last,  it  is  all 
over,  and  I  am  happy,  perfectly  happy ! '  And  even 
as  the  words  left  his  lips,  he  was  dead." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  minutes.  Then  Bob 
drew  a  long,  quivering  breath.  "What  made  him 
die  ? "  asked  he.  "  Did  he  die  because  he  loved  her 
so  much?" 

"Pshaw!"  said  skeptical  Brunette,  stoutly,  brush 
ing  a  winker  out  of  her  eye  with  her  handkerchief, 
"  no  man  ever  died  of  love.  Shakspeare  himself  says 
that  worms  have  died,  and  men  have  eaten  them,  but 
not  for  love.  I  —  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  they  should  eat  'em,  else,"  said 
Bob,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  I  believe  the  man  died  of  heart-disease,"  persisted 
Brunette. 

"  It  's  one  of  the  most  difficult  things  in  the  world 
to  be  certain  what  we  believe,"  said  the  mother,  "but 
I  believe  that  I  believe,  —  I  want  to  believe  that  he 
died  of  perfect  happiness,  pure  and  simple." 


134  THE   TKIANGULAE   SOCIETY. 

"  It  's  a  complaint  that  docs  n't  make  any  notice 
able  difference  in  the  Portland  death-rate  now-a-days, 
any  way,"  said  Brunette.  "  I  am  pretty  sure  that 
case  was  sporadic,  and  the  only  one  on  record." 

"  And  this  is  the  story  of  the  man  who  was  per 
fectly  happy,"  said  Bob,  mournfully,  putting  back  his 
chair,  and  preparing  to  go  upstairs,  "  and  he  died,  after 
all ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  mother,  "  he  was  happy  —  so 
happy,"  and  this  time  she  finished  the  sentence  — 
"  so  happy  that  it  actually  killed  him !  " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Brunette,  with  the  lamp  in  her 
hand,  "  the  fact  that  perfect  happiness  is  fatal  to 
human  beings,  explains  why  most  of  us  get  it  so 
dreadfully  diluted  !  " 


XII. 
THE  THIRD  TRIANGULAR. 

"  TO-JSTIGHT,"  said  Brunette  one  evening,  as  the  Tri 
angular  Society  met  about  the  table  —  "  to-night  I  'm 
going  to  read  some  nonsense,  that  I  wrote  simply  for 
amusement,  — to  see  if  certain  difficulties  could  be 
compassed.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a  sonnet.  After 
I  have  read  it,  I  want  you  both  to  tell  me  if  you  see 
anything  unusual  in  it  —  any  peculiarity  or  oddity. 
If  you  do  not,  I  shall  think  I  have  succeeded  in  my 
purpose." 

Bob  sat  up  very  straight  to  listen,  and  Brunette 
read  as  follows : 

EYES. 

In  ancient  times  did  valiant  minstrel-knight 
His  mistress'  visual  beauties  advertise, 
Singing  their  winning  radiance  lover-wise, 
Bepraising  lavishly  their  brilliant  might, 
Hoping  his  skill  might  win  his  life's  delight; 
Finding  similitudes  in  morning  skies, 
Likewise  in  moonlit  midnight's  duskiest  guise. 
I  claim  slight  kin  with  singers  fierce  in  fight  — 
I  question  this  —  if  either  warbling  wight 
Amid  high  Chivalry's  bright  votaries 
Did,  in  his  rich,  inspiring  strain,  devise 
This  hidden  difficulty,  which  to-night 
I  in  this  idly-tinkling  line  comprise  — 
This  simple  trifle,  bristling  thick  with  Is. 

135 


136  THE  TKIANGULAR   SOCIETY 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  notice  anything  uncommon  in 
it,"  said  the  candid  mother.  "  It  is  n't  so  good  as  some 
of  your  work ;  it  seems  to  me  to  belong  with  the 
'  middling  verses  '  which  *  gods  and  men  despise.'  J: 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Brunette,  "  now,  Bob  ?  " 

"  I  don't  like  it  much,"  he  answered,  "  but  it  does 
seem  to  have  the  letter  i  in  it  a  good  many  times." 

"  More  than  a  hundred,"  said  his  sister,  "  there  's 
an  i  in  every  word." 

"  Then  I  should  think  you  'd  better  send  it  to  the 
Argus,"  suggested  Bob,  who  doted  on  the  "  Age  of 
Fable." 

"  It  is  lost  labor  to  carry  owls  to  Athens,"  said  his 
sister.  "  And  now  I  '11  read  one  more  little  bit,  and 
leave  you  to  guess  its  secret." 

AFTERWARD. 

After  all  great  disturbance  falls  a  calm  — 
Tornadoes  pass,  and  peaceful  rainbows  make 
Heaven  fair  again,  and  sea  and  inland  lake 

Cease  raging,  and  acknowledge  beauty's  charm, 

As  Nature  laughs  away  all  late  alarm. 
Dormant  volcanoes,  after  ages,  wake 
And    scare  great  nations;    earthquakes  roar  and 
shake, 

And  straightway  cease  again  all  jar  and  harm; 

And  after  fate  and  circumstance  have  made 
Disaster,  disappointment  and  despair 
A  heavier  load  than  human  heart  can  bear, 

Malice  and  hate  at  last  shall  faint  and  fade, 

Falsehood's  sharp  stab  shall  heal,  and  faith  betrayed 
Cease  paining,  after  Death  has  vanquished  change  and 
care. 


THE  THIRD  TRIANGULAR.  137 

"  That 's  more  sensible  than  the  other,"  said  Bob, 
promptly,  "but  I   don't  see    anything  special   about 

it." 

u  I  don't  notice  anything  unusual  in  the   sound   of 
it,"  said  the  mother,  "  but  perhaps  if  I  should  look  at 


But  Brunette  objected  to  an  examination  of  the 
manuscript.  "  I  cannot  submit  my  papers  to  the  Soci 
ety,"  said  she,  loftily;  "  if  the  members  cannot  judge 
of  them  by  hearing  them  read  in  my  expressive  and 
appreciative  style,  I  must  do  without  their  criticisms. 
But  if  the  peculiarity  of  the  lines  should  occur  to 
either  of  you,  I  hope  you  '11  mention  it.  And  now 
it 's  Bob's  turn." 

"  Well,  I  've  made  some  verses  myself,  this  time," 
said  Bob,  "  and  I  must  say  it  's  uncommon  hard 

work." 

"You!"  exclaimed  his  sister,  "made  verses? 
What  did  you  make  them  of?" 

"Oh,  other  people's,"  said  Bob.  "And  now  you 
just  listen,  and  see  if  I  have  n't  done  it  nicely."  And 
Bob  read  with  great  gravity,  this  amazing  medley : 

POETICAL  PATCHWORK. 

I  only  know  she  came  and  w6nt  Lowell. 

Like  troutlets  in  a  pool ;  Hood. 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight,  Wordsworth. 

And  I  was  like  a  fool !  Eastman. 

"  One  kiss,  dear  maid,"  I  said  and  sighed,     Coleridge. 

"  Out  of  those  lips  unshorn!"  Longfellow. 

She  shook  her  ringlets  round  her  head,  Stoddard. 

And  laughed  in  merry  scorn.  Tennyson. 


138 


THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 


Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky,  Tennyson. 

You  hear  them,  oh  ray  heart  ?  Alice  Carey. 

"  'T  is  twelve  at  night  by  the  castle  clock,      Coleridge. 

Beloved,  we  must  part!  "  Alice  Carey. 

"  Come  back, come  back,"  she  criediii  grief,  Campbell. 

"  My  eyes  are  dim  with  tears  —          Bayard  Taylor. 
How  shall  I  live  through  all  the  days,        Mrs.  Osgood. 

All  through  a  hundred  years!  "  T.  S.  Perry. 

?T  was  in  the  prime  of  summer  time  Hood. 

She  blest  me  with  her  hand,  Hoyt. 

"We  strayed  together,  deeply  blest,  Mrs.  Edwards. 

Into  the  Dreaming  Land.  Cornwall. 

The  laughing  bridal  roses  blow  Patmor-e. 

To  dress  her  dark-brown  hair,  Bayard  Taylor. 

~No  maiden  may  with  her  compare,  Brailsford. 

Most  beautiful,  most  rare  I  Head. 

I  clasped  it  on  her  sweet  cold  hand,  Browning. 

The  precious  golden  link,  Alex.  Smith. 

I  calmed  her  fears  and  she  was  calm,—  Coleridge. 

u  Drink,  pretty  creature,  drink!  "  Wordsworth. 

And  so  I  won  my  Gene  vie  ve,  Coleridge. 

And  walked  in  Paradise,  Hervey. 

The  fairest  thing  that  ever  grew  Wordsworth. 

Atween  me  and  the  skies  I  Tennyson. 

"Bob,  you  never  did  that  alone?"  exclaimed 
Brunette. 

"Well,  mother  helped  me  about  some  of  the  au 
thors'  names,"  replied  Bob. 

The  mother  laughed.     "My  father  used  to  tell  a 


THE  THIRD   TBIANGULAR.  139 

story,"  said  she,  "  about  a  capitalist  who  once  started 
a  shingle-mill  in  an  upper  county  in  this  State.  He 
got  everything  in  working  order,  put  a  man  in  charge 
of  the  machinery,  and  himself  returned  to  the  haunts 
of  civilization.  Months  passed,  and  he  heard  no 
report  from  his  manufactory.  At  last,  out  of  all 
patience,  he  flew  to  the  scene  of  operations,  and  found 
his  man  calmly  '  sitting  around '  in  the  village  gro 
cery.  '  Why  on  earth  have  n't  you  shipped  some 
shingles?'  inquired  he,  wrathfully ;  'you  ought  to 
have  turned  out  thousands  by  this  time ! ' 

"*  Well,'  replied  the  foreman,  uncrossing  his  knees, 
and  crossing  them  the  other  way,  '  I  've  concluded 
tli at  it  's  cheaper  to  buy  shingles  than  't  is  to  make 
'em ! '  And  I  think  it  would  be  cheaper  to  buy 
poetry  than  to  make  it  in  the  toilsome,  slow,  trouble 
some  way  that  Bob  has  employed.  I  shall  recommend 
purchasing  it  from  you,  hereafter.  But  he  has  shown 
marvellous  patience  and  much  ingenuity.  However, 
it  takes  more  than  those  to  make  a  poet." 

"  Yes,"  said  Brunette,  "  else  this  stanza  which  I  am 
going  to  read  would  be  the  most  perfect  poetry.  I 
will  tell  you  beforehand,  that  it  is  a  brief  address  to 
the  moon  —  but  the  word  *  moon  '  is  not  in  it,  neither 
does  it  contain  one  of  the  letters  of  that  word." 

TO  THE  MOON. 
Dear  pallid  vestal,  that  upbears 

A  cresset  tipped  with  silver  fire, 
At  thy  behest,  earth's  fretful  cares 

Abashed  by  utter  peace,  retire. 


140  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Where'er  the  wretched  fall  asleep, 
Wearied  at  last  by  life's  despair, 

'T  is  sweet  that  thy  pure  face  will  keep 
Its  ever-f  ailhf  ul  vigil  there  I 

"  Now  I  'm  perfectly  well  aware,"  said  Brunette, 
"  that  those  lines  have  no  merit  excepting  their  diffi 
culty  ;  but  this  is  greater  than  you  would  think,  for 
the  condition  tabooes  all  the  ordinary  names  of  the 
moon.  You  can't  pay  *  orb,'  or  4  crescent,'  or  speak  of 
4  Dian '  or  the  *  huntress,'  or  4  Selene,'  or  mention 
'  bow,'  or  '  boat,'  or  '  shallop,'  —  or  even  '  the  queen  of 
night.'  " 

"  And  you  can't  call  it  a  luminary,  cither,"  said 
Bob,  as  though  that  would  be  a  precious  privilege. 

"  That  is  a  privation,"  said  his  sister,  "  not  to  be 
allowed  to  call  the  moon  a  'luminary,'  in  verse.  By 
the  same  token,  you  can't  call  her  a  good  friend  to  the 
Portland  Gaslight  Company,  nor  a  powerful  rival  of 
kerosene  oil.  And,  mother,  I  know  by  your  left  eye 
brow  that  you  're  going  to  tell  me  that  the  lines  would 
have  been  better  if  all  the  rest  of  the  alphabet,  as 
well  as  the  three  forbidden  letters,  had  been  omitted. 
You  need  n't ;  it  would  n't  be  original,  because  a  self- 
conceited  Englishman  said  it  a  great  while  ago,  on  a 
similar  occasion  —  and  besides,  I  told  you  in  the  first 
place,  that  I  did  n't  plume  myself  on  the  stanza.  But 
you  just  try  one  yourself  !  " 

"  Indeed,  no,"  replied  the  mother.  "  If  I  were 
going  to  write  verse,  I  should  want  to  use  not  only 
the  whole  twenty-six  letters  to  express  my  ideas,  but 


THE  THIRD   TRIANGULAR.  141 

several  others  which  have  never  been  invented.  Your 
rhythmical  calisthenics  are  ingenious  and  amusing, 
and  very  few  persons  find  a  recreation  at  once  so 
innocent  and  inexpensive.  And  as  this  session  seems 
to  abound  chiefly  in  oddities,  I  am  going  to  read  to 
you  from  my  scrap-book,  an  example  of  persistent 
rhyme  which  I  found  the  other  day,  and  which  I 
hardly  think  you  can  excel.  And  then  we  shall  find 
it  time  to  adjourn." 

DOCTOR  McGEE. 

In  a  cosy  hotel  in  great  London,  G.  13., 

One  winter  quite  lately,  Fate  chanced  to  decree 

I  should  stay  for  awhile  —  and  I  could  but  agree. 

It  was  not  in  "  the  season,"  and  consequently 

There  were  few  fellow-lodgers  to  speak  to,  or  see. 

In  the  coffee-room  there  (where,  quite  lucky  for  me, 

The  guest  is  by  no  means  restricted  from  tea, 

Or  chocolate,  or  milk,  but  may  have  them  all  three, 

By  ringing  for  Lucy,  and  biding  a  wee  — ) 

I  noticed  one  clay,  on  the  prim  mantel-tree, 

Between  two  pink  vases  of  lofty  degree,  — 

The  servant  declared  they  were  "  real  Japanee  "  — 

A  letter,  directed  to  "  Dr.  McGee, 

K"umber  sixty-one,  Norfolk  street,  W.  C.  " 

In  a  pretty  hand- writing,  neat,  graceful  and  free; 

On  the  corner  was  written,  as  fine  as  could  be, 

''  To  await  the  arrival  of  Dr.  McGee." 

And  I  absently  wondered,  while  drinking  my  tea, 

What  manner  of  man  the  new-comer  would  be, 

Who  might  drop  in,  to-morrow,  and  breakfast  with  me. 

But  the  letter  remained  there  —  two  days,  and  then  three, 


142  THE   TEIANGULAE   SOCIETY. 

A  week,  two  weeks  vanished,  like  foam  on  the  sea, 
And  morn  after  morn,  as  I  poured  out  my  tea, 
I  glanced  at  the  note  on  the  prim  mantel-tree, 
And  pondered  and  wondered  —  and  waited  to  see 
Why  it  never  was  called  for  by  Dr.  McGee. 

Who  was  he, 
This  Dr.  McGee, 

Who  was  not  where  he  was  expected  to  be  ? 
Was  he  Doctor  of  Laws,  or  a  simple  M.  D.  ? 
Or  a  travelling  quack,  with  extortionate  fee  ? 
Was  he  native,  or  born  in  some  foreign  countree  ? 
French,  Scotch,  German,  Irish,  or  wild  Cherokee? 
Or  an  ill-growing  sprig  of  some  noble  old  tree, 
With  a  new  name  wherever  he  happened  to  be  ? 
Was  he  wealthy  and  gouty,  as  often  we  see, 
Or  poor  and  rheumatic  ?  or  youthful,  and  free 
From  all  the  sore  ailments  which  time  may  decree  ? 
Was  he  bluff  and  big- whiskered,  as  doctors  may  be, 
Or  dapper,  mild-mannered,  and  brisk  as  a  flea? 
Was  he  curled  like  Hyperion,  or  bald  as  a  pea  ? 
Would  he  ever  appear  and  decide  it  ?  or  be 
Forever  and  ever  a  sealed  mystery  ? 

Where  could  he  be, 
Poor  Dr.  McGee  ? 

Had  he  perished  by  shipwreck  in  yonder  great  sea  ? 

Was  he  ill  in  some  hospital  ?  dying,  may  be, 

With  no  fond  friend  near  to  console  him,  or  see 

That  his  pillow  was  smooth,  and  his  breathing-space  free, 

And  his  medicines  given  him  regularly  ? 

It  troubled  my  thoughts,  and  quite  wore  upon  me, 

The  possible  fate  of  poor  Dr.  McGee, 

As  day  after  day  came,  but  never  came  he. 


THE  THIRD  TRIANGULAR.  143 

But  might  it  not  be 
That  by  Fortune's  decree, 

It  was  joy,  and  not  woe,  that  kept  Dr.  McGee  ? 

Thus  often  I  mused,  in  a  happier  kcy- 

Perhaps  his  good  star  had  arisen,  and  he 

Of  some  wealthy  nabob  was  sole  legatee, 

And  was  counting  the  worth  of  an  Indian  rupee, 

Or  busily  reckoning  1.  s.  and  d. ; 

Or,  as  Christmas  was  coming,  and  holiday  glee 

Was  rife  all  through  England,  from  centre  to  sea, 

Perhaps  in  some  pleasant  home  drawing-room  he 

Was  planning  the  growth  of  a  tall  Christmas-tree, 

While  rosy-cheeked  boys  and  girls,  one,  two  and  three. 

Were  pulling  his  whiskers  and  climbing  his  knee, 

Till,  entering  into  their  innocent  spree, 

He  quite  forgot  how  this  poor  letter  might  be 

Neglected  in  Norfolk  street,  W.  C. 

But  Christmas  departed,  with  "  boxing"  and  fee, 

And  the  letter  that  lay  on  the  prim  mantel-tree, 

And  that  once  was  as  white  as  the  lamb  on  the  lea  — 

Grew  yellow  with  waiting  —  as  often,  ah,  me, 

Befalls  those  who  wait  till  hope's  rosy  tints  flee. 

And  I  left  it  there  still,  when  I  took  my  last  tea, 

Handed  Lucy  the  coin  she  expected  to  see, 

And  paid  my  last  reckoning,  and  gave  up  my  key, 

And  went  to  the  station  at  quarter  past  three. 

And  though  I  may  wander  by  desert  and  sea, 

No  matter  what  marvels  may  happen  to  me, 

I  never  shall  know,  wheresoe'er  I  may  be, 

Who,  when,  why,  or  where,  about  Dr.  McGee. 


XIII. 

PARSON  SMITH'S  BIB. 

"  AND  now,  Bob,"  said  his  mother,  one  September 
morning,  as  they  were  finishing  breakfast,  "  what  did 
you  and  Brunette  see  at  the  fair  yesterday?  You 
were  so  tired  and  cross  last  night  that  I  did  not  ask 
you.  There  must  have  been  a  good  many  interesting 
things  there,  especially  in  the  centennial  loan  exhibi 
tion  department." 

"  I  was  tired,  that  's  a  fact,"  agreed  Bob,  ignoring 
the  other  part  of  the  charge;  "dreadfully  tired, 
being  dragged  about  all  day  by  Brunette.  All  she 
cared  for  was  just  to  write  her  report,  and  whenever 
I  saw  anything  I  wanted  to  look  at  longer,  she  said  it 
was  of  no  consequence  ;  and  the  tilings  she  looked  at 
most  were  just  rubbish,  and  she  would  n't  leave  me 
alone  a  minute,  because  she  was  afraid  I  would  get 
mixed  with  the  crowd,  or  stepped  on,  she  said,  or  car 
ried  off  by  Charley  Ross;  and  I  was  just  tired  out 
trying  to  keep  up  with  her,  and  out  of  other  people's 
way.  But  I  went  to  sleep  as  soon  as  I  touched 
the  pillow,  and  this  morning  I  feel  like  a  god 
rejuvenated." 

"  A  what  ?  "  queried  Brunette,  withdrawing  the  cup 
which  she  was  just  about  to  send  across  the  table  for 
more  coffee,  "  a  what,  did  you  say  ?  " 
144 


145 

"  I  heard  you  say  it,  the  other  day,  anyhow,"  mut 
tered  Bob,  "when  you  took  that  little  nap  in  the 
evening  after  you  'd  been  down  to  the  islands ;  you 
said  you  felt  like  a  god  rejuvenated.  Afterward,  I 
asked  mother  what  'rejuvenated'  meant,  and  she  said 
it  meant  made  younger,  and  she  always  felt  rejuve 
nated  when  she  was  rested,  and  I  don't  see  —  " 

"  Why,  Bob,"  laughed  Brunette,  "  I  remember  now, 
I  said  I  felt  '  like  a  giant  refreshed,'  that  was  all  — 
nothing  ubout  rejuvenated,  or  a  god,  or  anything  like 
it,  you  misrepresentational  boy !  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  care,"  pouted  Bob,  somewhat  cowed 
by  the  ominous  adjective,  "  whether  it  was  god  or 
giant,  it  was  something  about  somebody  who  got  up 
and  felt  better,  anyhow,  just  as  I  have,  this  morning^ 
And  before  I  tell  mother  about  the  fair,  I  want  to 
know  why  they  called  part  of  it  a  '  lone  exhibition '  ? 
Was  it  because  they  never  had  those  old-fashioned, 
worn-out,  faded,  mouldy,  cracked  and  spoiled  old 
things  on  exhibition  before  ?  " 

"It  is  because  these  same  persons  never  intend  to 
exhibit  them  on  another  centennial  occasion,"  ex 
plained  Brunette,  smiling. 

"  Well,  they  were  n't  worth  looking  at,  anyhow," 
said  irreverent  Bob,  "old  cracked  china  dishes  cov 
ered  with  weeping-willows  full  of  caterpillars  and  old 
money  that  you  could  n't  buy  a  top  with  and  old 
pewter  platters  and  old  Indian  relicts  and  powder- 
horns  and  sugar-tongs  and  canteens  and  spoons  and 
work-baskets  and  a  weaving-machine  and  Lady  Pep- 
7 


146  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

perell's  dishes  with  a  red  rooster  on  'em  and  the 
cradle  that  —  " 

"Stop,  stop,  Bob,"  gasped  his  mother,  "you  are 
smothering  me  with  information.  Don't  talk  so  like 
a  mill-clapper,  and  don't  mix  things  up  so.  One  thing 
at  a  time.  Now  what  about  the  cradle  ?  " 

"  But  we  did  n't  see  one  thing  at  a  time,"  persisted 
Bob,  "we  saw  'em  all  together,  and  I  could  n't  read 
the  libels,  and  all  I  could  find  out  about  the  things 
was  by  listening  to  people  while  they  were  stepping 
on  my  toes,  and  bumping  my  head  with  their  elbows. 
The  old  cradle,  a  gentleman  said,  was  the  one  that  old 
Parson  Smith  used  to  sleep  in  —  and  when  I  asked 
him  politely  who  Parson  Smith  was,  he  said  the  Par 
son  was  an  old  fuddy-duddy  who  died  before  I  was 
born  —  several  weeks  before,  he  said  ;  and  that  before 
he  died  he  used  to  preach  here  and  keep  a  dairy,  and 
there  were  some  of  his  clothes  and  his  bib,  now,  if  I 
did  n't  believe  it.  But  I  knew  he  was  just  fooling 
me." 

"  The  gentleman  must  have  had  a  gift  at  imparting 
information,"  laughed  Brunette ;  "  did  he  have  a 
badge  on  his  cap,  saying,  «  Questions  answered  here  '? 
That  's  the  kind  of  officer  I  should  like  to  see  insti 
tuted  at  all  public  gatherings,  especially  State  and 
county  fairs.  But  what  makes  you  think  he  was  try 
ing  to  fool  you  ?  " 

Bob  gave  an  inarticulate  groan  of  contempt  and 
disgust.  "  Do  parsons  wear  bibs  ? "  exploded  he. 
"  Do  parsons  sleep  in  a  cradle  just  big  enough  for  a 


PAKSON  SMITH'S  BIB.  147 

baby  ?  Parsons  in  old  times  must  have  been  a  good 
deal  smaller  than  they  are  now." 

"  But,  Bob,"  interposed  his  mother,  "  I  have  up 
stairs  the  first  pair  of  shoes  you  ever  wore.  If  you 
should  live  to  be  Governor  of  Maine,  and  die  a  very 
old  man,  and  a  hundred  years  or  so  after,  those  shoes 
should  be  exhibited  as  a  curiosity,  would  it  prove  that 
you  wore  them  when  you  were  governor?  Parson 
Smith  was  old  when  he  died,  but  nevertheless,  he  was 
once  a  baby  —  at  least,  so  it  is  said." 

"But  how  is  it  that  they  don't  have  some  of  his 
full-grown  clothes,  and  his  razor,  and  his  big  boots, 
and  —  " 

u  Ah,  me,"  said  the  mother,  softly,  "  that,  I  fancy,  is 
because  nobody  whom  he  knew  in  his  manhood  ever 
cared  so  much  about  him  as  his  mother  did.  She  pre 
served  even  his  old  bibs,  while  the  friends  of  his  later 
years  probably  sold  his  old  clothes  in  exchange  for 
vases,  and  praying  Samuels,  and  busts  of  Lord  Byron, 
or,  possibly,  gave  them  away  to  tramps." 

"  Tramps  and  plaster-casts  and  heads  of  Lord  By 
ron  in  Portland  in  Parson  Smith's  time  !  "  exclaimed 
Brunette.  "  Why,  Parson  Smith  was  gathered  to  his 
grandfathers  before  1795  ended,  when  Byron  was  as 
old  as  Bob,  here,  —  and  as  for  tramps  —  " 

"  Well,  anyway,"  put  in  Bob,  who  had  no  interest 
in  chronology,  "the  gentleman  said  that  parsons  must 
have  been  a  good  deal  scarcer  in  old  times  than  they 
are  now,  or  else  people  would  n't  have  kept  Mr. 
Smith's  bib  all  these  years.  And  he  told  the  lady 


148  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

who  was  with  him  that  he  did  n't  believe  there  was  a 
parson  in  Portland,  to-day,  who  could  lay  his  hand  on 
one  of  the  bibs  he  wore  when  he  was  a  baby.  And 
the  lady  laughed,  and  said  if  he  was  n't  careful,  some 
body  would  hear  him,  —  as  though  I  was  n't  some 
body  !  But  they  would  n't  have  made  game  of  me  so 
if  Brunette  had  been  by—  she  was  away  off,  walking 
round  a  pewter  dipper  that  somebody  said  came  from 
Scotland  two  hundred  years  ago.  She  was  just  all 
wrapped  up  in  that  dipper,  and  I  've  no  doubt  she 
wrote  —  " 

"  Some  verses  about  it,"  said  Brunette ;  "and  here 
they  are." 

A  PEWTER  TANKARD. 

William  Goold,  of  Windham,  exhibited  in  the  Centennial 
Department  of  the  Maine  State  Fair,  in  1876,  a  pewter  beer-mug, 
or  tankard,  "  known  to  have  been  brought  from  Scotland  two 
hundred  years  ago." 

Two  hundred  years!  oh,  grim  and  ghostly  goblet, 
Why  thus  torment  the  thirsty  souls  of  moderns, 
Moderns  who  live  in  times  when  pewter  tankards 
Linger  superfluous  ? 

Torn  from  the  land  that  flows  with  ale  and  oat-cake, 
How  in  thine  age  art  thou  betrayed  and  stranded 
Thus  high  and  dry  upon  the  thirsty  shores  of 
Maine  prohibition! 

Who  would  deal  out  Sebago  in  a  tankard  ? 
Or  even  milkman's  milk,  pieced  out  with  pump-juice? 
Pshaw!  who  would  load  a  cannon  with  baked  apples  ? 
Perish  the  notion ! 


PARSON  SMITH'S  BIB.  149 

What  are  the  feeble  tipples  of  the  present, 
Hop,  pop,  root,  spruce,  and  such-like  weak  devices, 
By  those  which,  take  the  centuries  together, 
Thou  hast  surrounded! 

Marvellous  mug!  how  many  casks  and  barrels, 
Yea,  more  than  that,  how  many  hundred  hogsheads, 
Pipes,  tuns  and  what  not,  hast  thou  held  and  carried,— 
Pale,  brown,  and  home-brewed? 

Surely  they  err,  who  say  that  drinks  convivial 
Shorten  men's  lives,  and  make  them  weak  and  shaky; 
What  devotee  who  pins  his  faith  on  water, 
Beaches  thy  record  ? 

How  many  hands  have  grasped  thy  quaint  old  handle! 
How  many  lips  have  pressed  thy  time-worn  margin! 
How  many  eyes,  with  foam-drops  on  their  lashes, 
Looked  down  thy  distance ! 

Thou  hast  outlived  thy  natural  use  and  purpose ; 
Ale  is  a  myth,  and  beer  an  old  tradition; 
Thou  art  a  phantom,  and  thine  occupation 
Gone,  like  Othello's. 

What  is  our  life  ?    Why  do  we  boast  and  bluster 
Even  if  we  count  a  hundred  paltry  summers  ? 
What  are  they  worth  ?  a  trifling  pewter  tankard 
Laughs  at  our  utmost. 

Granite  and  diamonds  shame  our  short  duration, 
Fine  gold  outlasts  us,  and  we  never  wonder, 
But  to  be  distanced  thus  by  paltry  pewter 
Humbles  the  proudest. 


150  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Farewell,  old  tankard  I  on  the  next  centennial, 
Doubtless,  some  other  bard  will  sing  thy  praises, 
Greet  thee  with  eyes  and  fingers  reverential, 
Even  as  I  do,  — 

Touch  thy  quaint  handle,  worn  by  phantom  fingers, 
Note  the  small  dints  along  thy  battered  margin, 
Then  passing  on,  to  die  and  be  forgotten, 
Leave  thee  immortal. 


XIV. 

THE  DOOR-MAT  MAN. 

" MOTHER,"  said  Brunette  one  evening,  "do  you 
remember  that  old  blind  man  who  generally  stands 
there  near  the  Clapp  house,  on  Congress  street,  beg 
ging,  with  his  wife  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  mother,  "  he  has  been  a  famil 
iar  figure  there  for  years.  He  generally  has  a  door 
mat  or  two,  ostensibly  for  sale,  but  nobody  ever  seems 
to  buy  one,  so  it  amounts  to  beggary,  after  all." 

"  Yes,"  said  Brunette,  "  and  when  I  tried  to  find 
out  something  about  them,  I  was  told  that  the  woman 
married  that  blind  man  out  of  pure  pity ;  that  she  has 
some  children,  men  and  women,  with  either  of  whom 
she  might  live  in  comfort ;  but  she  was  angel  enough 
to  marry  him,  out  of  benevolence,  and  take  care  of 
him." 

"  She  don't  look  one  mite  like  the  pictures  of 
angels,"  murmured  Bob,  who  was  busy  mending  a  cat- 
collar,  "  and  she  certainly  is  n't  one  of  the  «  angels 
ever  bright  and  fair,'  that  you  sing  about,  and  1 
should  n't  want  to  be  '  taken  to  her  care,'  if  the  blind 
man  did." 

"  The  commandment  only  says,  *  Thou  shalt  love 
thy  neighbor  as  thyself,'  "  said  the  mother,  not  noti- 

151 


152  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

cing  Bob's  remark.  "  It  does  n't  say  we  should  love 
him  better,  or  do  for  him  what  we  would  not  do  for 
ourselves.  If  the  woman  does  n't  need  to,  and 
would  n't,  beg  for  herself,  she  surely  is  n't  called 
upon  to  beg  for  him.  There  are  other  ways  provided 
for  the  support  of  poor  blind  people." 

"  I  know  it,"  rejoined  Brunette, t;  but  I  always  feel 
condemned  when  I  have  to  pass  by  her  without  giving 
her  anything.  The  other  day  when  I  went  down 
town  to  buy  a  pair  of  boots  —  these  have  kept  my 
feet  wet  for  a  week  —  and  saw  her  standing  there  in 
the  wind,  with  her  faded  calico  dress  whipping  about 
her,  I  pitied  her  so  that  I  gave  her  half  a  dollar  —  and 
then  I  had  n't  money  enough  left  for  my  boots,  and 
shall  have  to  wait  for  them  another  week,"  and  she 
sighed  gloomily.  "But  I  always  acknowledge  superi 
ority  in  anybody,"  she  went  on.  "  I  don't  know  a 
man  in  the  world,  no  matter  how  many  eyes  he  might 
have,  that  I  like  well  enough  to  make  me  bind  myself 
to  be  responsible  for  the  punctual  appearance  of  his 
three  meals  a  day  on  the  table,  even  after  he  has  paid 
the  grocer's  bill ;  and  yet.  that  woman  not  only  pre 
pares  that  man's  meals,  but  she  probably  begs  most  of 
them  beforehand,  and,  I  dare  say,  feeds  him  with  a 
spoon  afterward." 

"  Quite  likely."  responded  her  mother,  "  and  while 
you  are  going  with  wet  feet  for  want  of  your  half- 
dollar,  she  is  doubtless  dry-shod.  As  for  her  superior 
ity  to  you,  I  don't  believe  in  the  newspaper  doctrine 
that  self-sacrifice  and  self-effacement  are  the  crowning 


THE  DOOR-MAT   MAN.  153 

glories  of  a  woman.  If  that  had  been  the  Creator's 
plan,  woman  would  have  been  placed  prostrate  under 
the  feet  of  man,  instead  of  upright  by  his  side." 

"It  does  look  that  way,"  said  the  girl,  holding  her 
damp  shoe  to  the  fire,  "and  one  other  thing  has 
been  borne  in  on  me  since  -I  began  to  help  support 
myself.  It  is  my  conviction  that  the  poor  people,  like 
this  blind  man  and  other  beggars  on  the  streets, 
the  women  who  go  out  choring  and  take  in  washing, 
and  those  that  are  helped  by  charity,  and  such,  really 
do  not  suffer  so  much  from  poverty  as  do  respectable 
people  of  small  means,  especially  women,  who  live  in 
decent  houses,  keep  their  place  in  society,  and  are 
obliged  to  maintain  an  appearance  of  comfort,  and 
dress  like  ladies,  no  matter  how  little  they  may  have 
to  do  it  with." 

"  My  teacher  says  you  must  never  end  a  sentence 
with  a  proposition,"  whispered  Bob  to  his  mother. 
She  smiled  and  nodded  at  him,  and  said  — 

"  There  is  really  much  truth  in  that,  although  no 
body  says  so  —  aloud.  I  have  often  thought  that 
when  my  great-uncle  comes  back  from  the  Indies,  and 
brings  me  a  fortune  of  a  hundred  thousand  lacs  of 
rupees,  I  shall  bestow  a  great  part  of  it,  not  on  chari 
table  societies,  and  missionary  enterprises  —  not  on 
tramps,  and  beggars,  and  drunkards,  but  —  although 
it  will  be  a  delicate  business  to  do  —  on  those  hun 
dreds  of  unhappy  people,  mostly  women,  to  whom  self- 
respect  and  independence  are  as  the  very  breath  of 
life,  —  who  dread  pity  as  much  as  they  would  charity, 
7* 


154  THE   THIANGULAE    SOCIETY. 

and  whose  lives  are  an  agonizing  struggle  to  appear 
comfortable,  and  make  ends  meet  on  an  insufficient 
income.  The  woman  who  sells  berries  and  herbs  at 
back-doors,  matches  on  the  sidewalk,  or  apples  at  a 
corner,  and  is  helped  by  the  Widow's  Wood  Society 
in  the  winter,  does  not  have  half  the  anxieties  and 
penalties  hanging  over  her,  which  embitter  the  lives 
of  many  respectably  dressed  ladies.  She  is  n't  ex 
pected  to  entertain  people ;  she  is  not  sneered  at  by 
her  '  set '  if  she  wears  a  last-year's  bonnet,  or  an  old- 
fashioned  garment ;  and  not  one  of  her  acquaintances 
would  '  cut '  her  if  she  should  be  turned  out  of  her 
shelter  for  non-payment  of  rent.  But  where  would 
you  and  I  be,  if  we  should  fail  to  to  be  ready  with  our 
rent,  on  the  first  day  of  every  month  ?  The  strictest 
Bible  rule  only  instructs  us  to  love  our  neighbor  as 
ourselves,"  she  concluded,  returning  to  the  original 
topic,  "and  I  think,  my  daughter,  that  when  you 
pinched  yourself  and  endangered  your  health  for  that 
comfortably-dressed  beggar,  you  loved  her  not  as 
yourself,  but  better." 

"  I  wish  we  would  get  real  poor,"  said  Bob,  softly, 
"and  then  I  could  sell  papers,  and  support  the  family !" 

"You're  a  jewel,  Bob,"  said  his  sister,  "  and  to  pay 
you  for  it,  I  '11  read  you  my  poem  about  the  blind 
man's  wife,  after  supper." 

"  There,"  exclaimed  Bob,  "  I  knew  that  was  what  it 
would  come  to,  when  you  began  talking ! " 


THE  DOOR-MAT  MAN.  155 

THE    BLIND  MAN'S  WIFE. 

She  leads  him,  when  the  day  is  fair, 

Along  the  smoothest,  sunniest  street, 
Choosing  the  way,  with  watchful  care 

Before  his  slow,  uncertain  feet. 

She  guards  him  deftly  from  the  throng 

That  crowds  before  or  hastes  behind, 
Guiding  him  tenderly  along 

Like  a  lost  child  —  for  he  is  blind. 

And  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year, 
She  is  his  staff,  his  strength,  his  sight — 

The  steady  planet,  shining  near, 
Which  cheers  and  lights  his  lifelong  night. 

Because  she  loves  him.    What  beside 

Could  keep  her,  all  the  weary  days, 
His  helper,  savior,  slave  and  guide, 

Who  never  thanks  her  nor  repays  ? 

Nor  slow  strong  force,  nor  sudden  wrench, 

Nor  both,  can  such  a  love  discrown, 
Which  many  waters  cannot  quench, 

Nor  floods  of  hurrying  billows  drown. 

He  does  not  see  her  furrowed  face, 

Her  crooked  form,  her  faded  hair — 
She  is  to  him  all  bloom  and  grace, 

But  still  more  kind  than  she  is  fair. 

Old,  feeble,  poor,  and  blind,  his  whole 

Of  life  is  darkness,  want  and  pain, 
Yet  rich  in  that  which  many  a  soul 

More  strong  and  proud,  would  die  to  gain/ 

Oh,  with  a  power  but  faintly  told 

In  sweetest  tales  of  prose  or  rhyme, 
Love's  everlasting  arms  uphold 

The  heaviest  loads  of  life  and  time  I 


XY. 

THE   FOURTH    TRIANGULAR. 

"  SOME  day,"  said  the  mother,  meditatively,  as  she 
drew  her  Boston  rocker  near  the  table,  to  open  a  ses 
sion  of  the  Triangular  Literary  Society, —  "some  day 
after  my  ship  comes  in  and  I  have  plenty  of  time  —  " 

"  Is  your  ship  going  to  bring  a  cargo  of  time  ? " 
asked  Bob,  as  he  searched  the  pages  of  his  scrap-book. 

"My  ship  will  bring  money,  and  money  means 
leisure,  and  leisure  means  all  the  time  I  want  to  de 
vote  to  the  furthering  of  several  plans  which  I  have 
had  all  my  life.  One  of  these  is  a  plan  to  collect  a 
book  of  verse  about  animals.  There  are  many  prose 
works  about  them,  but  I  know  of  none  in  verse." 

11  Brunette  has  written  some  poems  to  fit  such  a 
book,"  said  Bob, —  "  I  can  count  up  —  " 

"Hardly  poems,"  replied  Brunette,  "I  don't  call 
those  nonsensical  rhymes  by  so  dignified  a  name." 

"  Yes,  several  of  Brunette's  would  do,"  continued 
the  mother,  "  and  I  remember  several  from  older  au 
thors —  and  I  occasionally  find  a  more  modern  one, 
floating  about  in  the  newspapers.  Here  is  one,  for  in 
stance,  that  I  am  going  to  read  to  you  this  evening. 
It  must  have  been  written  during  or  shortly  after  the 
war,  and  it  recalls  the  unpardonable  custom  in  vogue 
15G 


THE   FOURTH   TRIANGULAR.  157 

at  the  time,  of  turning  poor  worn-out  horses  into  the 
streets  to  die  —  to  be  abused  by  cruel  boys,  and  to 
starve  to  death.  I  remember  very  well  how  many 
sins  of  this  sort  were  committed  in  Washington  at 
that  time  —  I  was  there  then  —  and  how  my  heart 
used  to  ache  at  the  sight  of  the  poor  creatures,  who 
received  so  sorry  a  reward  for  having  helped  to  save 
the  Union  —  like  this  one." 

A  CAVALRY  PRIVATE. 
In  the  green  park  the  grass  grows  fair  and  tall, 

The  herbage  drips  with  dew, 
And  from  the  untrodden  places  by  the  wall, 
The  clover  lifts  pink  promise.     Seeing  all, 

A  starving  horse  looks  through, — 

A  poor  gaunt  animal,  sharp-ribbed  and  lean, 

A  picture  of  distress  — 

On  his  thin  sides  are  marks  where  blows  have  been, 
And  on  his  shrunken  shoulder  may  be  seen 

The  branded  signs  —  "  U.  S." 

Sadly  he  thinks  of  other  summer-tides, 

When,  by  the  wide  barn-doors, 
The  fearless  children  patted  his  sleek  sides, 
And  chattering  merrily  of  future  rides 

Fed  him  with  apple-cores. 

]STo  high  ambition  lured  his  thoughts  away, 

No  dreams  of  trotting-parks  ; 
He  only  heard  the  blithesome  children  say  — 
u  Next  winter  he  '11  be  harnessed  in  the  sleigh, 

And  then,  oh,  then,  what  larks  I  " 


158  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

His  nerves  were  living  steel;  — his  frame  replete 

With  lithesomeness  and  grace ;  — 

His  bright  neck  "  clothed  with  thunder,"  and  his  feet- 
The  very  tempest,  sweeping  fierce  and  fleet, 

Could  scarce  outstrip  his  pace. 

Green  were  the  pastures  where  he  used  to  browse, 

In  youth's  elysian  prime, — 
He  nipped  the  pink  buds  from  the  apple-boughs 
Shading  some  pleasant  farm-yard,  where  the  cows 

Gathered  at  milking-tinie,: — 

Lowing  responsive  to  the  plaintive  bleat 

Of  calves,  which  waited  late, 
Tethered  in  tender  grass,  unmown  and  sweet, 
And  clover  which  they  had  not  learned  to  eat, 

Inside  the  orchard  gate  — 

Each  pulling  wildly  at  the  fettering  rope, 

Stretching  his  soft  neck  far, 
And  calling  with  a  sort  of  piteous  hope, 
For  the  fair  milkmaid's  hand  the  gate  to  ope, 

And  give  him  his  mamma. 

There  on  alow  bough  hung  the  milking-stool  — 

The  throne  of  innocence;  — 

There,  when  the  summer  day  grew  dusk  and  cool, 
The  hens  repaired,  and  went  to  roost  by  rule, 

In  rows  along  the  fence. 

Oh,  happiness!  but  on  the  saddest  day 

That  ever  gloomed  the  skies, 
Some  heartless  Quarter  Master's  employs' 
Espied  him  as  he  chewed  the  fragrant  hay, 

And  said  —  "  Behold  a  prize! 


THE  FOURTH  TRIANGULAR.  159 

"  This  animal  is  sound  in  wind  and  limb, 

With  every  nerve  alive  — 
Our  Uncfe  Samuel  hath  need  of  him; 
I  '11  give  you,  as  he  seems  in  extra  trim, 

One  hundred  twenty-five." 

Wherefore  he  bought  and  took  the  horse  along, 

To  come  alas,  no  more  — 
Leaving  the  children  in  a  weeping  throng, 
Deploring  audibly  the  bitter  wrong, 

Grouped  round  the  stable  door. 

Gone  with  his  last  sweet  wisp  of  home-made  hay 

Depending  from  his  mouth  — 
Unconscious,  as  he  walks  the  grassy  way, 
How  soon  his  feet  will  bruise  in  fiercest  fray, 

The  red  fields  of  the  South. 

Gone  with  the  clover  tangled  in  his  mane, — 

To  plough  through  Southern  mud; 
To  make  sharp  hoof -prints  on  the  battle-plain, 
To  trample  madly  on  the  bleeding  slain, 

And  bathe  his  feet  in  blood. 

But  what  a  change  —  and  what  a  loss  I  oh,  shame  I 

What  has  he  gained  therefor  ? 
Since  in  the  heyday  of  his  youth,  he  came, 
His  proud  head  high,  his  nostrils  breathing  flame, 

Down  to  the  seat  of  war  ? 

His  bright,  expressive  eyes  have  lost  their  fire, 

His  humbled  head  hangs  low; 
His  fair  and  nervous  limbs  have  learned  to  tire 
In  wading  wearily  through  swamps  and  mire, 

Goaded  by  spur  and  blow. 


160 


THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 


Oh,  battered  limbs  —  oh,  dim  and  hollow  eyes, 

Oh,  gaunt  and  wasted  frame  I 

Youth,  loved  and  honored  — age,  which  all  despise  — 
Is  this  the  picture  held  before  the  eyes 

Of  military  fame  ? 

"  Eepublics  are  ungrateful  ";  when,  oh,  when, 

Has  this  been  proved  a  lie  ? 
Horses  are  heroes,  too,  as  well  as  men  — 
Why  are  they  used,  abused,  neglected  —  then 

Turned  in  the  street  to  die  ? 

The  grass  waves  inaccessible,  though  near— 

Mocking  his  longing  gaze  — 
And  from  the  fountain-basin  he  can  hear 
The  tinkling  water-drops  plash  cool  and  clear, 

Misting  in  rainbow  sprays. 

Soon  I  shall  see  — when  breaks  his  patient  heart  — 

His  gaunt  form  carried  hence, 
With  rigid  limbs  aimed  sky- ward,  in  a  cart, 
To  some  grim  burial,  from  the  town  apart, 

At  government  expense  I 

"  How  shameful  it  was  !  "  said  Brunette,  her  eyes 
sparkling  with  indignant  tears.  «  Do  you  really  suppose 
the  government  turned  those  faithful  servants  out  to 
die  in  that  way  ?  " 

"  Not  directly,  perhaps.  But  the  government,  which 
makes  appropriations  of  millions  to  enrich  swindlers, 
perhaps  saved  a  few  dollars  by  selling  its  worn-out 
horses  to  poor  negroes  and  other  irresponsible  and 
cruel  persons,  who  had  neither  money  enough  to  buy 


THE  FOURTH  TRIANGULAR.  1G1 

food  for  the  poor  creatures,  nor  mercy  enough  to  put 
them  oat  of  their  misery.  When  the  purchaser  found 
his  poor  victim  utterly  useless,  he  simply  drove  it 
away  from  his  door,  and  so  shirked  all  responsibility. 
In  walking  from  my  boarding-house  to  the  post-office 
I  have  seen  half  a  dozen  of  those  poor  creatures.  It 
was  vain  to  speak  to  a  policeman  —  he  had  nothing  to 
do  with  it ;  it  was  vain  to  write  to  the  municipal 
authorities  —  they  paid  no  attention;  and  there  was 
no  Saint  Bergh  society  in  Washington  in  those  days. 
Even  after  the  animals  died,  I  have  known  them  to 
lie  three  days  in  the  street  before  being  removed." 

"  What  a  lovely  place  for  a  summer  residence ! " 
said  sarcastic  Brunette,  "  and  how  you,  of  all  people, 
must  have  enjoyed  living  there  !  " 

"  It  made  my  life  wretched,"  said  the  mother. 
"Opposite  my  lodgings,  at  the  corner,  there  was  an 
old-fashioned  wooden  pump,  and  I  have  seen  a  poor 
old  skeleton  of  a  horse  stand  there  for  hours,  begging 
for  water,  until  my  heart  ached.  People  would  come 
and  fill  their  pails  at  the  pump,  without  giving  him  a 
drop  of  water,  although  they  saw  him  dying  for  it.  It 
was  vain  to  beg  them  to  help  him  to  a  drink.  Some 
times  a  boy  would  come  with  a  stable  pail,  and  I  could 
hire  him,  for  a  quarter,  to  water  the  dying  creature. 
Sometimes,  too,  I  would  borrow  a  pail  from  my  land 
lady's  kitchen,  and  go  out  and  pump  water  for  him 
myself.  But  what  was  the  little  I  could  do  ?  The 
poor  things  famished  and  died,  all  the  same.  But  I 
shall  never  forget  it.  And  now,  Brunette,  read  some 
thing  more  cheerful." 


162  THE   TKIANGULAB   SOCIETY. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Brunette,  "that  this  is  just 
the  time  to  bring  forward  an  article  that  I  wrote  the 
other  day  concerning  a  person  whom  I  greatly  rever 
ence  —  one  who  has  spent  years  in  patient  and  kindly 
service,  amid  ridicule  and  detraction  and  criticism,  for 
creatures  which  are  neither  thankful  for  nor  apprecia 
tive  of  good  offices.  Now,  Bob,  guess  whom  I  mean  ?" 

"  Some  school-ma'am,"  said  Bob,  with  a  look  of 
conscious  guilt. 

Brunette  laughed  till  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 
"  You  have  convicted  at  least  one  pupil,"  she  said, 
"and  I  shall  hereafter  regard  your  unhappy  teacher 
with  new  sympathy.  Guess  again." 

"  Somebody  who  takes  care* of  deaf  and  dumb  per 
sons,"  said  Bob,  recovering  himself. 

"  Not  quite,"  said  his  sister,  "  perhaps  mother  can 
tell." 

"  Some  missionary  to  the  cannibals,"  hazarded  the 
mother. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Brunette,  "  they  are  always  baked 
before  they  have  time  to  do  much  good ;  and  in  that 
case  it  certainly  cannot  be  said  that  they  are  not  appre 
ciated.  But  I  will  read  the  article,  and  let  you  find 
out  for  yourselves." 

A  HERO  IN  A  GOOD  CAUSE. 

He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small, 

For  the  great  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all. 

"When  a  man  labors  earnestly  for  the  benefit  of  persons 
less  happily  circumstanced  than  himself, —  not  necessarily 


THE  FOURTH  TRIANGULAR.  163 

by  giving  them  money  outright,  which  is  not  always  ju 
dicious  charity,  but  perhaps  by  building  tidy  and  com 
fortable  houses  which  they  can  rent,  instead  of  living  in 
unclean,  unwholesome  and  dilapidated  tenements;  per 
haps  by  providing  some  cheap  amusement  which  may  be 
within  the  reach  of  the  humblest  plodder;  in  cases  like 
this,  even  when  the  kind-hearted  originator  of  the  plan 
actually  recovers  his  outlay,  really  losing  nothing,  possi 
bly  gaining  something  in  a  financial  way,  by  his  transac 
tion,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  call  him  a  philanthropist;  to 
say  that  he  has  done  a  good  work  for  humanity,  and  to 
honor  him  accordingly. 

And  when,  as  rarely  happens,  he  labors  in  the  cause  of 
humanity  without  plan  or  hope  of  recompense ;  when  he 
gives  his  time,  his  strength,  his  money  and  his  sympathy 
to  suffering  human  beings,  as  did  Elizabeth  Gurney  Fry 
and  John  Howard,  we  have  hardly  words  to  express  our 
admiration  and  reverence  for  greatness  of  soul  so  un 
usual,  for  tenderness  and  zeal  so  ardent  and  self-sacrific 
ing.  We  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  he  is  entirely  disin 
terested,  that  he  works  for  others  with  no  thought  of 
self-aggrandizement  or  reward,  that  his  labor  is  with 
out  money  and  without  price.  And  yet  Elizabeth  Fry 
and  John  Howard,  like  all  other  kind  and  gentle-natured 
persons  who,  as  benefactors  and  friends,  come  in  direct 
contact  with  unfortunate  and  oppressed  humanity,  did 
receive  the  sweetest  of  all  earthly  compensations  for  their 
labors  of  love,  —  the  thanks  and  gratitude  of  thousands  of 
human  hearts  which  threir  kind  ministrations,  their  un 
selfish  devotion,  had  touched  and  softened.  If  he  is  a 
benefactor  to  the  human  race  who  makes  two  spears  of 
grass  grow  where  one  grew  before,  how  much  more  a 
benefactor  is  he  who  wins  from  the  arid  and  unfruitful 


1G4  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

soil  of  human  hearts,  parched  by  neglect  and  hardened 
by  crime,  the  sweet  and  healing  growth  of  undying  grat 
itude  and  tender  remembrance  ?  And  he  who  achieves 
this,  has,  even  in  this  life,  his  reward  — the  eager  thankful 
ness  of  those  for  whom  he  has  labored  and  suffered,  and 
the  repaying  love  which  not  only  sweetens  all  his  days, 
but  after  his  generous  heart  has  mouldered  into  dust, 
keeps  his  memory  fragrant  among  men  forevermore. 

But  if  we  accord  the  qualities  of  unselfish  generosity, 
disinterested  kindness,  and  real  tenderness  of  heart  to 
those  who  receive  for  their  good  deeds  the  reward  of  pop 
ularity,  or  praise,  or  the  spontaneous  gratitude  of  even 
the  lowest  of  the  human  race,  —  for  all  these  a-re  recom 
pense,  and  desirable,  and  labored  for  by  many,  — what 
name  shall  we  find,  what  noun  or  adjective  shall  we  bring 
to  describe  fitly  a  man  who,  not  for  popularity,  not  for 
praise,  not  for  gratitude,  deliberately  takes  up  and  makes 
his  own  the  cause  of  helpless,  oppressed  and  abused 
creatures,  which  not  only  cannot  be  grateful  to  him  for 
the  merciful  work  which  he  does  for  them,  but  which, 
alas,  do  not  even  know  that  he  helps,  saves,  and  protects 
them? 

Not  for  popularity,  for  his  harvest  has  been  contempt 
and  ridicule;  not  for  praise,  for  his  reward  has  been  mis 
representation  and  abuse;  not  for  gratitude,  for  the  suf 
fering  horse  which  he  protects  from  an  inhuman  driver, 
or  the  tortured  dog  which  he  rescues  from  cruel  boys, 
does  not  in  the  least  distinguish  him  from  its  persecutors. 
This  man,  who  deserves  doubly,  if  any  man  on  earth  can 
deserve,  the  name  of  hero,  is  Henry  Bergh. 

This  man,  who  has  been  alternately  ridiculed  as  a  mis 
chievous  fanatic,  sneered  at  as  a  mild  imbecile,  perse 
cuted  as  a  determined  trespasser  on  other  men's  rights, 


THE  FOURTH   TRIANGULAR.  165 

and  held  up  to  public  scorn  as  a  foreigner  who,  unable  to 
achieve  notoriety  in  any  better  way,  conceived  the  idea 
of  making  capital  out  of  the  alleged  inhumanity  of  the 
American  people,  was  born  in  -New  York,  perhaps  fifty 
years  ago.  Any  man  of  ordinary  penetration,  seeing  him 
and  conversing  with  him,  would  be  sure  that  Mr.  Bergh 
has  no  especial  need  to  search  out  any  novel  means  of 
distinguishing  himself  from  the  common  herd.  Tall  and 
majestic,  with  a  face  whose  gravity  is  almost  melancholy, 
excepting  when  infrequently  it  is  illuminated  and  beauti 
fied  by  the  sweetest,  kindest  smile  in  the  world,  he  im 
presses  the  most  casual  observer  as  a  man  of  rare  pres 
ence  and  dignity,  and  the  slightest  acquaintance  or 
conversation  with  him  reveals  gentle  breeding  and  wide 
culture.  His  sterling  sincerity,  earnestness,  and  perfect 
freedom  from  self-seeking,  are  evident  in  his  whole  man 
ner,  speech  and  bearing;  insomuch  that  persons  who 
soberly  consider  him  "a  little  fanatical"  are  willing 
enough  to  admit  the  strength,  nobleness  and  kindness  of 
his  nature. 

So  far  is  this  man  from  having  taken  up  his  work  from 
a  thirst  for  notoriety,  as  some  of  the  Kew  York  papers 
would  have  us  believe,  that  he  resigned  for  it  an  honor 
able  position  that  hinted  at  much  more  brilliant  possibil 
ities  in  the  way  of  worldly  honors  than  he  will  ever 
achieve  as  the  champion  of  the  oppressed  brute  creation. 
lie  was  at  one  time  secretary  of  the  American  legation  to 
Eussia,  and  afterwards  consul  at  St.  Petersburg,  and  he 
received  unusual  marks  of  honor  from  the  Eussian  gov 
ernment.  During  the  visit  of  the  present  Czar  to  this 
country,  a  few  years  since,  he  took  occasion  to  express 
his  consideration  and  respect  for  the  founder  and  presi 
dent  of  the  most  humane  of  societies. 


166  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Mr.  Bergh  is  no  "dilettante,  delicate-handed  priest" 
of  sentimentalism,  preaching  afar  off  against  an  evil 
which  he  will  not  approach  or  soil  his  fingers  with.  In 
the  very  beginning,  he  bestowed  upon  his  Society  property 
which  was  earning  an  annual  income  of  seven  thousand 
dollars,  thus  proving  at  once  his  thorough  sincerity  and 
his  generous  liberality,  —  for  many  a  man  will  give  his 
voice,  his  influence,  even  a  part  of  his  time  and  labor,  to 
a  worthy  cause,  when  his  heart  is  not  sufficiently  affected 
to  involve  his  pocket.  The  amount  of  hard  and  distaste 
ful  work  which  he  has  done  in  the  service  of  dumb  crea 
tures,  can  hardly  be  computed.  In  the  streets,  amid 
insolence  and  violence,  in  dirty  slums,  among  the  most 
dangerous  classes  of  New  York,  in  dens  devoted  to  dog- 
fighting  and  cock-fighting,  in  stock-yards,  in  swill-milk 
pens,  and  in  loathsome  slaughter-houses,  he  has  spent 
hours  and  days,  shocked  and  sickened  by  scenes  of  dis 
gusting  cruelty,  needless  torture,  revolting  brutality,  and 
the  previously  unpitied  and  unmitigated  suffering  of  the 
poor  creatures  which  have  too  long  been  considered  as 
having  no  rights  which  human  beings  are  bound  to 
respect.  ~Now  that  the  attention  of  the  public  has  been 
aroused,  and  the  Society  in  New  York  has  gained  power 
and  influence,  and  has  the  strong  arm  of  the  law  behind 
it,  as  a  supporter  and  enforcer  of  its  principles,  much  of 
this  unpleasant  drudgery  may  safely  be  trusted  to  other 
hands.  But  it  is  not  even  now  an  unusual  sight  in  the 
busier  streets  of  the  city,  to  see  a  noticeably  tall  gentle 
man,  with  a  grave  and,  under  such  circumstances,  some 
what  severe  countenance,  step  suddenly  from  the  curb 
stone,  and  seizing  a  lame,  over-loaded,  diseased  or  half- 
crippled  horse  by  the  head,  sternly  command  the  angry 
driver  to  dismount,  and  send  the  suffering  animal  to  the 


THE   FOURTH   TRIANGULAR.  167 

stable.  The  driver  himself  is  promptly  arrested  and 
fined. 

The  continual  recurrence  of  these  and  similar  scenes, 
has  made  the  name  of  Mr.  Bergh,  and  the  Society  of 
which  he  is  the  head  and  front,  a  positive  and  salutary 
terror  to  evil-doers.  In  the  absence  of  any  better  motive 
for  the  merciful  treatment  of  the  helpless  animals  under 
their  charge,  this  dread  which  Mr.  Bergh  and  his  agents 
inspire  in  the  souls  of  savage  and  unfeeling  men,  has  an 
excellent  effect.  How  pleasant  it  would  be  if  all  the  poor 
dumb  creatures  which  his  influence  has  helped  and  bene 
fited,  could  know  to  whom  they  are  indebted,  and  how 
earnestly  and  self-forgetfully  he  has  labored  in  their  in 
terests! 

"  Before  undertaking  this  labor,"  he  wrote,  not  long 
ago,  "  I  took  a  careful  survey  of  all  the  consequences  to 
me  personally,  and  I  recognized  the  fact  that  I  should 
be  much  abused  and  ridiculed,  and  hence  it  was  neces 
sary  for  me  to  forget  myself  completely."  But  of  one 
thing  more  Mr.  Bergh  may  also  be  sure;  that  however 
generously  he  may  forget  himself,  there  are  thousands  of 
gentle  and  appreciative  hearts  which  will  not  forget  him, 
nor  cease  to  honor  him;  and  in  many  a  household  of  ten 
der  souls,  his  name  is  cherished,  and  the  shadow  of  his 
kind  and  sensitive  face  pointed  out  by  little  children  as 
""the  dear,  kind  Mr.  Bergh  who  takes  care  of  the  poor 
dumb  creatures  which  cannot  cry  or  speak  when  they  are 
abused."  Surely,  not  the  least  of  his  worthy  achieve 
ments  is  the  good  effect  of  his  character  and  example  on 
the  minds  of  the  rising  generation.  Boys  are  proverbi 
ally  cruel;  but  it  is  to  be  charitably  hoped  that  their  cru 
elty  is  generally  the  result  of  either  thoughtlessness  or 
imitation.  And  it  would  be  well  if  every  mother  in  the 


168  THE  TKI ANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

land,  instead  of  drawing  the  attention  of  her  sons  to  the 
example  of  a  successful  politician,  or  a  self-made  million 
aire,  would  place  before  them  as  an  example,  the  earnest 
benevolence,  persistence  in  well-doing,  and  disinterested 
tenderness  of  heart,  of  the  patient  and  faithful  Founder 
and  President  of  the  American  Society  for  the  Preven 
tion  of  Cruelty  to  Animals. 

"  I  like  that,"  said  Bob,  apparently  relieved  to  find 
that  it  contained  no  allusion  to  a  "  school-ma'am." 

"It  is  only  a  just  tribute,"  said  the  mother,  "  but 
I  'm  afraid  the  editor  will  not  publish  it." 

"  We  '11  see,"  said  Brunette.  "  Here  is  a  riddle,  or 
rebus,  or  charade,  Bob,  whichever  you  like,  that  I 
have  made  on  purpose  for  you.  Guess  it  and  I  '11  give 
it  to  you." 

WHAT  IS   IT? 

Though  I  love  the  charms 

Of  the  home-fire  bright, 
I  am  under  arms 

Both  by  day  and  night, 

Not  upon  my  back 

Do  I  bear  my  loads; 
Legs  I  do  not  lack, 

Yet  avoid  the  roads. 

Though  I  never  shun 

Duty's  hard  decree, 
Yet  some  other  one 

Makes  my  rounds  for  me. 


THE  FOURTH  TKIANGULAR.  169 

Kings  may  stand  —  but  yet 

A  seat  is  found  for  me, 
Though  I  never  sit;  — 

How  can  these  things  be? 

"  It  is  some  sort  of  a  soldier,  or  a  sentinel,  or  a 
picket-guard,  or  an  officer,  or  something  military,"  said 
Bob. 

'*  But  all  these  do  sometimes  sit  down,"  said  the 
mother. 

"  Well,  I  shall  study  it  out  presently,"  said  Bob. 
"  And  now  I  'm  going  to  read  something  that  I  found 
the  other  day.  I  like  it,  and  if  either  of  you  knows 
who  wrote  it,  I  wish  you  'd  tell  me." 

LITTLE  LONESOME. 

She  was  a  timid  little  maid, 
Of  even  harmless  things  afraid ; 
A  hasty  word,  a  sudden  stir, 
A  playful  touch,  would  startle  her; 
She  feared  the  lightning,  and  the  rain, 
The  branch  that  swept  against  the  pane, 
The  ocean's  roar,  the  wind's  sad  moan, 
And  dreaded  to  be  left  alone. 

And  often  in  her  bed  at  night, 
She  would  awake  in  wild  affright, 

G  7 

Entreating  with  appealing  tone, 

"  Mamma,  I  cannot  stay  alone! 

The  shutters  groan  and  rattle  —  hark! 

I  hear  a  whisper  in  the  dark  — 

Oh,  come  and  hold  me  close  and  near, 

Mamma,  I  am  so  lonesome  here! 


170  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

u  The  stars  peer  in  and  wink  at  me; 
The  moon  looks  ghastly  through  the  tree 
And  shines  by  fits  across  the  door; 
The  shadows  move  upon  the  floor 
Like  living  things;  the  windows  creak, — 
I  feel  a  cold  breath  on  my  cheek; 
The  chimney  howls,  the  wind  is  high, 
I  am  so  lonesome  where  I  lie!  " 
And  then  the  mother's  tender  heart 
Would  take  the  little  sufferer's  part; 
Would  haste,  with  reassuring  kiss, 
To  soothe  her  back  to  quietness ; 
To  clasp  her  fluttering  hands,  and  still 
The  shuddering  sob,  the  nervous  thrill, 
Until  her  head  found  happy  rest 
Upon  that  kind,  protecting  breast. 

But  others  blamed  her  tenderness, 
And  saicl,  "  Indulgence  and  caress 
Will  harm  the  child  and  do  her  wrong; 
She  never  will  be  brave  and  strong, 
If  thus  you  pet  her  whims  and  freaks ; 
You  should  not  heed  her  when  she  speaks 
Conquer  her  folly  and  your  own, 
And  let  her  go  to  sleep  alone." 

And  so  when  next  she  cried  at  night, 
Calling  in  tremulous  affright, 
"  Mamma,  I  hear  the  watch-dogs  bark  I 
I  am  so  lonesome  in  the  dark!  " 
The  mother  heard,  with  tear-wet  face, 
But  closed  her  lips  and  kept  her  place 
Until  the  child,  too  tired  to  weep 
Longer,  had  sobbed  herself  to  sleep. 


THE  FOUBTH  TKIANGULAK.  171 

To-night,  the  eddying  snow-flakes  whirl 
Above  the  sleeping  little  girl; 
Her  room  is  dark,  her  bed  is  cold, 
Love  cannot  warm  the  frozen  mould; 
Yet  still  her  mother  hears  the  plaint 
Come  through  the  midnight,  far  and  faint, 
Half  lost  amid  the  tempest's  moan, — 
"  Mamma,  I  cannot  stay  alone! 
O  mamma,  come!  the  wild  winds  cry, 
And  I  am  lonesome  where  I  lie!  " 

"Well!"  said  Brunette,  stoutly,  after  a  brief  inter 
view  with  her  handkerchief,  "  where  is  the  young  per 
son  who  accuses  me  of  being  melancholy  ?  It  strikes 
me,  Bob,  that  your  selection  is  about  as  melancholy  as 
any  of  my  contributions.  I  have  heard  of  people  who 
strain  at  a  gate  and  swallow  a  saw-mill." 

"  I  know,"  said  Bob,  dreamily,  "  but  somehow  I 
liked  it.  Perhaps  mother  has  something  more 
cheerful." 

"  Here 's  something  that  must  have  been  written  by 
somebody's  grandmother,"  said  the  mother,  "  long  be 
fore  the  days  of  conventional  cat-tails  and  one-legged 
storks.  Just  listen." 

KNITTING-WORK. 

I  sing  in  praise  of  knitting-work  —  a  good  old-fashioned 

theme, 
Unspoiled  as  yet  by  hackneyed  phrase,  or  new-fledged 

poet's  dream  — 

Neglected  quite,  and  overlooked,  in  this  progessive  day 
Of  bead-work  and  embroidery,  Macrame  and  crotchet. 


172  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

I  grieve  to  know  that  young  girls  now  despise  the  gentle 

art 
Which  played  in  ancient  housewifery  so  prominent  a 

part— 

I  grieve  that  flimsy  fancy-work,  of  just  no  use  at  all, 
Usurps  the  place  once  occupied  by  knitting-work  and  ball. 

Only  some  good  old-fashioned  dame,  with  wrinkled  cheek 

and  brow, 
And  kerchief  pinned  across  her  breast,  like   one   I  'm 

watching  now, 
With  dress  of  old-time   bombazine,  and  high-crowned 

muslin  cap, 
Dares  flourish  an  incipient  sock  above  her  ancient  lap. 

I  mind  me  of  my  childish  daj^s — the  vanished  heretofore, 
When  I  longed  to  spend  the  livelong  day  in  playing  out- 
of-door, 

But,  worshipping  the  practical,  my  mother  made  me  sit 
Demurely  in  my  little  chair  beside  her  knee,  and  knit. 

Knit,  till  the  stated  task  was  done  —  and  then  my  work 

was  hid 
With  eager  joy  and  hurried  hand,  beneath  my  work-box 

lid  — 
And  then  how  gladly  forth  I  sped  to  join  the  childish 

throng, 
With  keener  relish  for  my  sport,  because  deferred  so  long! 

I  mind  me  of  the  evenings  since,  in  girlhood's  happy  age, 
Which,  knitting*\vork  in  hand,  I  've  passed  above  a  favor 
ite  page  — 

I  almost  hear  the  tinkling  sound  of  needles  keeping  time 
To  thrilling  words   of  old  romance,  or  poet's  ringing 
rhyme ! 


THE  FOURTH  TRIANGULAR.  173 

Once,  knitting,  thou  wert  tedious  —  but  since  riper  years 

were  mine, 
I  've  met  with  seamings  every  way  more  troublesome  than 

thine  — 

Found  more  vexatious  widenings — of  care  and  weariness, 
And  other,  sadder,  narrowings  —  where  hope  grew  less 

and  less ! 

A  plea  for  thee,  O   knitting-work  —  a  warm  and  earnest 

plea, 

For  years  of  gentle  intercourse  have  knit  my  heart  to  thee, 
And  often  when  dim  shapes  of  ill  before  me  darkly  rise, 
I  find  a  sweet  nepenthe  in  thy  simple  mysteries. 

"  That 's  comfortable  and  home-like,"  said  Brunette, 
"  and  brings  back  a  summer  evening  in  the  cool  sitting- 
room  at  my  dear  old  great-uncle's  farmhouse,  with  the 
smell  of  old-fashioned  roses  coming  in  at  the  windows, 
and  placid  aunt  Martha  knitting  round  and  round  on 
a  sock  for  uncle  or  one  of  the  boys.  But  we  've  had 
verse  enough  for  to-night.  Now  for  a  '  local.' " 

A  MODERN  MINSTREL. 

AND  THE  WAY  HE  CARRIED    COALS  TO    NEWCASTLE. 

The  age  of  romance,  they  say,  has  passed  away;  the 
days  of  chivalry,  of  troubadours,  and  plumed  and  bucklered 
knights-errant,  of  greaves  and  gonfalons,  portcullis  and 
drawbridge.  But,  sole  survivor  of  all  these  old-time 
glories,  the  troubadour,  light-hearted  wandering  minstrel, 
yet  remains,  a  living  link  between  the  dignified  past  and 
the  upstart  present.  Xot  alone  in  the  old  haunts  of  song 
and  romance  which  knew  him  of  old ;  he  has  left  his  rosy 


174  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

bowers  for  the  city  streets,  and  he  even  sometimes  drifts 
as  far  north  as  Portland,  or  "  as  far  as  the  ice  will  per 
mit,"  as  the  Bangor  steamers  say  in  their  late  autumn 
advertisements. 

But  the  tricks  and  manners  of  minstrels  have  changed 
in  the  years,  like  those  of  most  other  people.  Whereas 
the  minstrel  used  to  go  about  with  slashed  doublet  and  a 
feather  in  his  hat,  singing  love-ditties  under  ladies'  win 
dows,  and  accompanying  himself  with  a  guitar,  in  these 
days  he  plays  not,  neither  does  he  sing,  but  lets  ladies  do 
their  own  warbling,  feeling  that  it  is  enough  for  him  to 
furnish  them  songs  of  his  own  composition,  which  they 
can  set  to  such  tunes  as  suit  themselves.  So,  with  a 
handful  of  printed  sheets  on  his  arm,  he  tramps  from 
door  to  door,  in  a  shabby  coat  and  ragged  cassimere 
trowsers,  soliciting  purchases  and  rehearsing  his  needs, 
accompanying  himself,  if  the  day  be  rainy,  only  with  a 
broken-ribbed  umbrella. 

Such,  and  so  attended,  was  the  peripatetic  minstrel  who 
yesterday  wandered  through  some  of  the  uncongenial 
up-town  streets,  peddling  sundry  printed  sheets  of  rhyme, 
headed  "Choice  Poems," — probably  from  the  fact  that 
by  paying  your  money,  you  could  have  your  choice  among 
'em.  He  stopped  ever  and  anon  at  the  poorer-looking 
houses,  as  if  knowing  where  genius  would  be  most  warmly 
appreciated,  to  urge  his  wares. 

"  Ko,"  said  a  worried-looking  woman  who  answered 
his  ring,  with  a  hammer  in  one  hand  and  a  saucer  of  car 
pet-tacks  in  the  other,  "we  don't  want  any  vases  or 
cement  or  stove-polish  or  patent  yeast  or  rubber  type  or 
clothes-poles  or  stationery  or  —  " 

"But,  mebby,"  chipped  in  the  minstrel,  with  a  soft 
Milesian  accent  that  would  wheedle  a  bird  off  a  bush, 


THE  FOURTH  TRIANGULAR.  175 

"  mcbby  ye  'd  like  some  of  me  pomes  made  'em  mesilf 
avery  wan  av  ?em  only  five  cints  and  it 's  a  bad  finger  I 
have  a  fellin  loikely  and  can't  wurruk  tek  wan  thin  av  ye 
plaze!" 

The  woman  really  turned  pale  as  she  closed  the  door, 
"lie's  actually  trying  to  sell  verses  I  "  she  exclaimed, 
aghast  at  his  temerity  or  his  desperation.  "Trying  to 
sell  verses!  Now  that  shows  how  hard  the  times  are!  " 

Further  along,  a  poor  poet  was  leaning  pensively  from 
a  window.  The  window  had  a  broken  pane  which  the 
poet  could  not  afford  to  mend,  and  his  landlord  was  one 
of  those  who  "  never  make  any  repairs."  Now  there  is 
a  difference  between  a  poet  and  a  minstrel.  The  min 
strel  wanders  up  and  down  in  the  earth,  and  sometimes 
gets  a  good  meal  and  a  cup  of  coffee  at  sentimental  peo 
ple's  back  doors,  while  the  poet  stays  at  home  and  starves. 
The  reason  is  because  your  poet  feels  instinctively  the 
necessity  of  keeping  within  easy  reach  of  the  almshouse, 
while  to  the  minstrel,  all  houses  are  almshouses.  The 
poet,  on  this  occasion,  was  listening  to  a  redbreast,  which, 
swinging  on  an  elm  bough  that  she  had  chosen  for  a 
building-site,  was  singing  rapturously,  with  no  fear  of 
house-rent  before  her  eyes,  pouring  out  as  rippling  rou 
lades  and  quivering  cadenzas  as  though  instead  of  having 
no  listener  but  a  needy  poet  without  a  dollar  in  money, 
credit  or  liabilities,  she  were  trying  to  please  a  solid  citi 
zen  who  had  just  made  fifty  thousand  dollars  by  a  judicious 
failure. 

Absorbed  in  the  music,  the  poet  forgot  to  worry  over 
the  facts  that  in  one  of  the  shops  down-town  he  could  get 
a  suit  of  whole  clothes  for  five  dollars,  if  he  could  only 
command  that  sum,  which,  as  he  could  not,  might  as 
well  be  five  hundred;  that  his  breakfast  was  slim  to-day, 


176  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

and  would  be  slimmer  to-morrow;  and  that  his  last  poem 
had  been  declined  by  the  Atlantic,  for  no  reason  satisfac 
tory  to  the  author.  Finally,  the  bird  paused  for  a  beak- 
full  of  breath. 

uKobin,"  said  the  poet, —  for  poets  talk  with  birds  and 
sing  to  beasts,  even  in  these  days,  "  Robin,  why  does  the 
old  northern  legend  call  you  a  i  breast-burned  bird '  ? 
Your  breast  is  neither  the  color  of  fire,  nor  of  scorched 
feathers ;  it  is  exactly  the  color  ©f  the  red  chalk  which 
mill-men  use  to  make  figures-  on  newly  sawed  lumber, 
and  farmers  write  accounts  with,  on  the  inside  of  barn 
doors.  But  it  would  not  do  to  say  in  a  poem  that  a  robin's 
breast  is  the  color  of  red  chalk.  And  yet  they  tell  us 
that  truth  is  the  highest  charm  of  poetry.  Alas,  this  is  a 
world  of  paradoxes!  "  and  he  pulled  a  fringe  of  rag  from 
his  worn  sleeve,  and  hung  it  on  the  elm  bough  as  a  con 
tribution  to  the  proposed  robin's-nest.  u  Even  a  shred  of 
worn-out  shoddy  has  a  value,'7  he  said,  smiling,  "  if  it  be 
sanctified  in  the  service  of  love  and  song  !  " 

Just  then  the  minstrel  came  along;  and  the  moment 
he  put  his  eye  on  the  poet,  thus  smilingly  dividing  his 
rags  with  his  next  of  kin  (for  was  n't  he  a  robbin'  him 
self  ?)  that  moment  the  minstrel  knew  him  for  a  custom 
er,  and  u  held  him  with  his  glittering  eye." 

Now,  the  minstrel's  eye  was  not  winning;  it  was  blear 
with  dissipation,  shifting  with  deceit,  and  full  of  the  un 
scrupulous  cunning  which  comes  of  long  experience  at 
the  kitchen  doors  of  an  unfeeling  world  without  much 
taste  for  poetry;  but  it  held,  like  the  last  nail  in  a  win 
dow-casing  at  house-cleaning  time.  And  now  his  price 
was  ten  cents. 

The  poet  heard  his  tale.  Listening  and  looking,  he 
forgot  his  rejected  poem,  which  was  lying  in  the  Atlantic 


THE  FOURTH  TRIANGULAR.  177 

office  awaiting  the  transmission  of  eighteen  inaccessible 
cents  for  return  postage  —  for  the  poem  was  a  long  one, 
and  heavy,  and  Hannibal  Hamlin  insists  that  book  manu 
script  and  magazine  manuscript  are  two  things,  and  the 
latter  must  pay  letter  postage;  he  forgot  that  fourteen 
notes  requesting  his  autograph  were  that  moment  in  his 
desk  awaiting  a  reply,  because  he  had  not  the  necessary 
twenty-eight  coppers  for  the  transmission  of  answers ;  he 
forgot  everything  but  the  claims  of  suffering  genius,  and 
he  fished  the  solitary  dime  from  his  pocket  and  gave  it  to 
the  minstrel,  taking  a  sheet  of  songs  in  return. 

"  Verily,"  said  he,  "  greater  faith  hath  no  man  than  to 
think  poetry  a  marketable  commodity  in  Portland;  I  will 
not  destroy  a  trust  at  once  so  childlike  and  so  sublime. 
But,*'  he  continued,  glancing  down  the  paper,  "  you  are 
unwise,  my  friend,  to  sell  these  original  articles  at  ten 
cents  a  thing-full ;  one  of  them  is  an  excellent  English 
poem  which  I  have  long  known  by  heart,  and  for  which 
the  Atlantic  people  would  gladly  pay  you  twenty-five 
dollars,  if  you  could  make  them  believe  you  wrote  it. 
But  unluckily, 

'  "When  the  furze  and  when  the  broom 
Glitter  in  their  golden  bloom  —  ' 

does  not  sound  as  though  it  grew  in  this  country.  Still, 
the  passage  on  the  other  page,  where  you  make  '  smile  ' 
rhyme  with  '  trial,'  is  refreshingly  original.  Go,  my 
friend;  this  is  the  last  ten-cent  piece  I  have;  but  your 
condition  is  sorrier  than  mine;  your  appreciation  of  truth 
is  not  so  good,  and  your  rhymes  are  much  worse.  Go 
down  into  the  lawyers'  and  brokers'  offices;  tastes  may 
not  be  so  difficult  there,  and  money  is  certainly  easier. 
The  idea  of  a  peddler  offering  verses  to  a  poet!  "  he  con- 
8* 


178  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

tinued,  as  the  minstrel  took  a  fresh  quid  of  tobacco  and 
moved  away;  "there  really  are  some  people  who  would 
not  hesitate  to  carry  ribbons  to  Coventry,  or  boots'  and 
shoes  to  Lynn!  " 

"  Brunette,"  said  the  mother,  gravely,  as  the  Society 
rose  to  say  good-night,  "  I  don't  believe  the  editor  will 
publish  it ! " 

"  Mother,"  exclaimed  Bob,  rubbing  his  ankle  where 
it  had  struck  against  her  chair,  "I  know  now  the 
answer  to  the  riddle  —  it 's  your  old  Boston  rocker." 


XVI. 

A  RAINY  DAY. 

"  BRUNETTE,  you  'd  better  take  your  umbrella  this 
morning,"  said  the  careful  mother,  as  her  daughter 
was  preparing  for  her  daily  departure.  "  It 's  sure  to 
rain  to-day." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Brunette,  "  it  can't  rain  to-day  ;  we 
have  had  three  rainy  days  already,  and  I  will  not 
encourage  the  weather  in  such  behavior.  Besides,  the 
sky  is  brightening." 

"  But  look  at  those  driving  clouds  !  " 

"  Oh,  pshaw,  that  's  only  flying  scud." 

"  Very  well,"  rejoined  the  mother,  "but  you  '11  find 
it  will  be  a  skying  flood  before  dark." 

"  Well,"  laughed  Brunette,  "  I  '11  take  my  water-proof 
along,  as  a  sort  of  sop  to  Cerberus.  Meanwhile,"  said 
she,  pausing  at  the  door  and  rummaging  in  her  pocket, 
"  here  's  my  opinion  of  the  weather  for  the  last  week. 
I  meant  to  have  read  it  to  you,  last  night,  but  you  can 
amuse  yourself  with  it  after  I  'm  gone."  And  she 
departed,  while  her  mother  picked  up  the  bit  of  paper 
she  had  tossed  back,  and  read  : 

A  WET   WEEK. 

Rain  and  drizzle  and  fog  and  mist. — 

Fog  and  darkness  and  rain  — 
Will  the  shadows  lift  from  the  soaking  earth, 

And  the  sun  shine,  ever  asrain? 

179 


180  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Day  after  day  after  day  after  day 

The  clouds  roll  in  and  across, 
As  though  every  mariner  out  of  port 

Had  murdered  an  albatross. 

Or  as  though  some  pious  granger-man, 

"With  acres  of  thirsty  grain, 
Had  prayed  with  too  much  earnestness 

For  the  early  and  latter  rain. 

Tor  the  worst  that  can  befall  a  man, 
Be  he  reckoned  with  saints  or  knaves, 

—  As  has  proved  too  true  again  and  again  — 
Is  to  give  him  all  he  craves. 

If  any  one  knows  the  blundering  soul 
Whose  prayer  was  too  long  and  wide, 

Beg  him  to  open  his  mouth  once  more, 
And  pray  on  the  other  side. 

Or  if  any  one  knows  the  fateful  bird 
Who  has  brought  the  fog  and  mist, 

In  spite  of  Coleridge,  or  Mr.  Bergh, 
Or  any  who  would  resist,  — 

Shoot  him  with  rifle  or  good  cross-bow, 

Or  smite  him  with  fire  and  sword, 
And  hang  him  about  the  stubborn  neck 

Of  the  obstinate  Weather  Board  I 

"  It  is  an  extremely  melancholy  evening,"  said  Bru 
nette,  coming  in,  just  at  dark,  wet  and  draggled  and 
dripping.  She  had  purposely  entered  the  house  by 
the  back  door,  and  come  up  the  back  stairs,  so  as  not 
to  take  her  dripping  garments  into  the  sitting-room  — 


A  RAINY  DAY.  181 

and  as  she  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen 
floor,  she  looked  like  a  modern  Undine  just  emerged 
from  her  fountain.  The  rain  fringed  her  water-proof 
with  little  streams  which  made  a  circular  puddle  on 
the  floor  around  her ;  her  hat,  with  its  soaked  plume, 
looked,  as  Bob  remarked,  "  like  a  wet  hen  "  ;  her  hair, 
escaped  from  its  fastenings,  lay  in  a  wet,  curly  tangle 
about  her  shoulders  ;  her  sodden  gloves  stuck  tight  to 
her  hands,  as  she  tried,  with  half-numb  fingers,  to  pull 
them  off.  Even  her  eyelashes  were  diamonded  with 
rain.  But  since  Brunette  began  her  daily  pilgrimages 
to  the  office,  she  had  grown  accustomed  to  all  varieties 
of  weather,  and  did  not  much  mind  rain. 

"  It  is  rather  odd,"  she  laughed,  "  how  my  umbrella 
always  manages  to  keep  dry,  no  matter  how  wet  I  am. 
If  I  take  it  with  me  in  the  morning,  the  day  always 
turns  out  fine,  and  I  have  to  drag  it  back  in  bright 
sunshine,  with  perhaps  a  package  or  two,  and  my  arm 
full  of  books.  When  it  rains,  I  have  always  left  it 
behind,  either  at  the  house  or  the  office." 

"I  thought  you  foiled  fate  about  that,"  said  the 
mother,  taking  off  the  dripping  water-proof.  "  See 
here,  why  don't  you  have  a  gutter  built  round  the 
bottom  of  this  thing,  with  a  spout  leading  off  behind, 
so  as  not  to  have  the  water  it  sheds  poured  directly 
on  your  feet?  I  thought  you  arranged  all  that,  by 
getting  a  second  umbrella,  so  you  could  have  one  here 
and  one  at  the  office  ?  " 

"  Well,  so  I  did  ;  and  if  you  will  open  the  hall-closet 
yonder,  you  will  see  them  both  hanging  there,  dry 


182  THE  TEIANGULAB   SOCIETY. 

and  comfortable  —  doubtless  hugging  themselves  with 
delight  at  the  thought  that  I  am  wet  almost  to  the 
skin.  Umbrellas  are  gregarious.  My  two  are  always 
together.  The  other  morning  when  it  rained  so,  as  I 
started  down-town,  those  ingenious  conveniences  were 
both  high  and  dry  at  the  office.  That  second  umbrella 
Avas  a  bad  investment.  If  I  had  a  dozen,  it  would  be 
just  so,"  said  Brunette,  winding  up  her  wet*  hair. 
''But  it's  a  peculiarly  lonesome  evening;  the  whole 
out-door  world  seems  full  of  the  spirit  of  late  autumn ; 
—  you  hear  it,  you  see  it,  you  tuste  it  in  the  air,  you 
smell  it,  and  feel  it  —  it  appeals  to  every  sense,  and 
your  soul  too ;  and  it  is  so  depressing  and  hopeless 
that  it  is  picturesque.  I  wish  I  could  paint  a  picture 
of  it." 

"  Why  don't  you  ?  "  asked  peremptory  Bob,  who 
generally  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  people  cannot 
always  do  as  they  wish. 

"  Ah,"  said  Brunette,  "  I  could  only  make  a  pen-and- 
ink  sketch,  and  not  a  satisfactory  one  at  that,  I  'm 
afraid." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Bob,  going  to  the  street  window  and 
putting  his  head  under  the  curtain,  "you  mean  a 
poem ;  but  I  don't  see  anything  very  poetical  in 
foaming  gutters  and  bare  trees  and  dim  gas-lamps  and 
little  door-yards  and  wet  roofs  and  Mrs.  Brown's 
dripping  line  of  clothes  and  an  old  man  in  a  cart 
whipping  a  sopping-wet  horse  and  umbrellas  and  mud 
and  people  waiting  at  the  corner  and  swearing  about 
the  street-cars  and  —  " 


A  RAINY  DAY.  183 

"  Bob,"  said  his  sister,  "  you  have  the  greatest  knack 
at  inventories ;  I  never  knew  anybody  so  rapid  and 
comprehensive.  And  if  I  can  remember  all  that  you 
have  said,  and  all  that  I  have  seen,  I  will  attempt  the 
picture,  after  supper." 

And  by  being  allowed  to  sit  up  a  little  later  than 
usual,  Bob  was  enabled  to  hear  the  following  verses, 
which  Brunette  called  a  versified  version  of  his  in 
ventory,  and  which  he  dignified  as  "  a  portrait  of 
Congress  street  on  a  rainy  night  in  the  dismallest  time 
of  the  year." 

A   DECEMBER   NIGHT. 

All  day  the  sky  has  been  one  heavy  cloud, 
All  day  the  drops  have  plashed  against  the  panes, 

The  brimming  eaves-spouts  gurgled  full  and  loud  ; 
And  now  the  night  has  come,  and  still  it  rains. 

The  frosts  and  rifling  winds,  those  treacherous  thieves, 
Have  stripped  the  shivering  branches  stark  and  bare; 

Beneath,  the  walks  are  thick  with  trodden  leaves, 
Which  fill  with  woodsy  odors  all  the  air. 

Yon  street-lamp  glows,  a  disk  of  luminous  fog, 

Lighting  a  little  space  of  mud  and  rain, 
Where  hurrying  wayfarer  or  homeless  dog 

Starts  sudden  into  sight,  and  fades  again. 

Its  faint  gleam  struggles  with  the  dark,  and  shows 
A  lonesome  door-yard,  with  its  leafless  vine, 

And  Monday's  luckless  washing,  — rows  on  rows 
Of  dripping  garments  hanging  on  the  line. 


184  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Along  the  roadside  gutters  rush  the  streams 

Like  turbid  rivers  in  a  summer  flood; 
And  at  the  crossings,  drivers  urge  their  teams 

To  splash  the  wroth  pedestrian  with  mud. 

From  far  across  the  harbor,  low  and  faint, 
A  fog-horn's  friendly  bellow  greets  the  ear; 

Or  some  slow,  cautious  steamer's  hoarse  complaint, 
"Warning  its  kindred  not  to  come  too  near. 

Small  knots  of  draggled  pilgrims  stand  and  wait 
Upon  the  muddy  curb,  and  peering  far 

Up  street  and  down  in  vain,  find  fault  with  fate, 
And  sharply  blame  the  dilatory  car; 

Their  grouped  umbrellas,  by  the  hazy  light 
Obscure  and  dim,  show  through  the  vapors  dense 

Like  clumps  of  toad-stools,  born  of  rain  and  night, 
Huddled  beside  some  roadside  pasture  fence. 

One  ray  redeems  the  dreariness  and  blight, — 
The  window-light  which  streams  across  the  square ; 

The  light  of  home,  —  the  blessed,  saving  light 
Which  keeps  the  world  from  darkness  and  despair. 

Ah,  happy  they  who  in  its  warmth  abide! 

Peace  sits  among  them,  with  her  fair  wings  furled; 
"What  care  they  for  this  wretched  world  outside, — 

This  darksome,  dismal,  drear  December  world? 


XVII. 

LOOKING  OVER    THE  WALL. 

"  WHAT  a  lovely  old  place  that  lonesome  garden  is, 
across  the  street,"  said  Brunette,  one  day,  approaching 
the  window  where  her  mother  stood  looking  out. 
"  How  lush  everything  grows  there,  and  how  pretty  it 
is,  although  all  summer  so  unpruned  and  neglected ! 
I  can  even  see  the  red  of  the  currants,  all  this  distance 
away,  there  are  so  many  of  them." 

"  Yes,"  said  Bob,  "  and  earlier  in  the  summer  there 
were  so  many  Johnny-jtimp-ups  in  the  grass-borders 
that  I  could  see 'em  from  that  window  —  all  facing 
this  way,  and  all  grinning  together." 

"  How  absurd  !  "  remarked  his  sister,  "  to  talk  about 
those  lovely  pansies  'grinning'!  " 

« Well,  they  do  grin,"  persisted  Bob.  « When  I 
asked  mother  what  '  grin '  meant,  she  said  it  meant  a 
sort  of  fixed  smile ;  and  those  flowers  never  stop  smil 
ing,  and  they  somehow  always  seem  to  have  enormous 
mouths,  and  arched  eyebrows,  like  the  clown  in  the 
pantomime,  for  all  they  're  so  pretty.  And  I  used  to 
long  for  a  handful  of  'em,  they  were  so  bright,  and 
nobody  ever  seemed  to  gather  any  ;  but  though  all 
the  other  boys  climbed  the  wall  and  broke  off  great 
branches  of  apple-blossoms,  mother  would  n't  let  me 

185 


186  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

go  and  get  a  single  jump-up.  And  one  day  a  man 
came  and  mowed  'em  all  down  with  the  grass,  and 
made  hay  of  'em.  I  never  can  do  anything  that  other 
boys  do." 

"  No,  my  son,"  said  his  mother,  "  not  when  <  other 
boys '  go  into  private  enclosures  and  steal  what  grows 
there.  You  could  do  without  the  pansies,  but  you 
could  n't  do  at  all  well  without  a  clear  conscience." 

"  You  call  'em  pansies,"  said  Bob,  evading  the  point 
he  had  raised,  "  and  I  Ve  heard  Brunette  call  'em 
heart's-ease ;  and  some  of  the  girls  at  school  call  'em 
ladies'-delights  ;  and  the  old  German  woman  who  used 
to  bring  us  milk,  said  they  were  step-mothers  ;  but  I 
like  the  name  of  Johnny-jump-ups  best,  because  they 
always  look  so  bright  and  jolly,  and  seem  to  spring 
up  so  lively,  before  there  are  many  other  flowers.  And 
last  spring,  when  Brunette  planted  some  seeds  of  that 
same  kind  of  flowers,  out  there  in  what  she  calls  her 
flower-bed — (Jbelieve  it 's  nothing  in  the  world  but 
a  plat  of  coal-ashes  — )  she  put  a  little  flat  stick  down 
in  the  ground  by  them,  like  a  grave-stone,  and  wrote 
on  it  *  Viola  tricolor.''  And  I  guess  it  was  their  grave 
stone,  sure  enough,  for  not  one  of  'em  came  up,  and 
so  nobody  had  a  chance  to  try  their  color,  after 
all." 

For  a  wonder,  Brunette  did  not  reply.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  dreamily  on  the  bosky  greenness  of  the 
lonesome  garden.  "  Mother,"  she  said,  "  the  man  is 
dead  who  used  to  own  that  garden,  and  walk  up  and 
down  its  shady  paths.  How  pleasant  it  was  to  have 


LOOKING  OVEE  THE   WALL.  187 

that  secluded  spot  in  the  midst  of  the  town  !  Did  you 
ever  see  him  ?  " 

"  Often,"  answered  her  mother.  "  He  was  a  stately 
gentleman,  with  a  handsome,  clear-cut  face,  and  a  fine 
presence  ;  and  he  was,  I  believe,  that  rare  being  —  a 
conscientious  politician.  I  wonder  how  many  persons 
think  of  him  as  often  as  I  do  ?  I  never  glance  at  the 
garden,  winter  or  summer,  without  remembering  him  ; 
and  there  is  not  one  of  our  rooms  from  which  it  is  not 
visible.  And  yet,  that  man  probably  never  heard  my 
name,  or  saw  my  face,  in  his  life.  I  wonder  if  any 
stranger  will  remember  me  like  that  ?  " 

"  I  hope  riot,"  said  Brunette,  "  it  seems  a  little 
melancholy.  But  I  never  look  over  there  at  twilight 
without  half-fancying  that  I  see  a  dim,  tall  shadow 
passing  slowly  in  and  out  amid  the  foliage.  I  suppose 
it  is  the  wind  blowing  the  shrubbery  and  the  low 
apple-boughs."  And  Brunette  went  up  stairs. 

FESSENDEN'S    GARDEN. 

From  this  high  window,  in  the  twilight  dim, 

I  look  beyond  a  lofty  garden  wall, 
And  see  well-ordered  walks,  and  borders  trim, 

With  trellised  vines  and  rows  of  fruit-trees  tall. 

Along  the  darkling  shrubbery  where  most 
The  garden's  olden  lord  at  evening  strayed, 

I  half-perceive  a  silent,  stately  ghost, 
Taking  dim  shape  against  the  denser  shade. 

His  footstep  makes  no  rustle  in  the  grass, 

Xor  shakes  the  tenderest  blossom  on  its  stem; 

The  light  leaves  bend  aside  to  let  him  pass,  — 
Or  is  it  but  the  wind  that  touches  them? 


THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

A  statesman,  with  a  grave,  reflective  air, 
Once  used  to  walk  there,  in  the  shadows  sweet; 

Now  the  broad  apple-trees,  his  pride  and  care, 
Spread  their  pink  carpet  wide  for  alien  feet. 

Beneath  those  friendly  boughs,  with  thoughts  unbent, 
He  found  sometimes  a  respite  sweet  and  brief, 

Threaded  the  wandering  ways  in  pleased  content, 
And  plucked  a  flower,  or  pulled  a  fragrant  leaf;  — 

Twined  a  stray  tendril,  lopped  a  straggling  limb, 
Or  raised  a  spray  that  drooped  across  the  walk; 

Watched  unscared  birds  that  shared  the  shade  with  him, 
Saw  robins  build,  or  heard  the  sparrows  talk. 

His  native  streets  now  hardly  know  his  name,— 

And  in  the  world  of  politics,  wherein 
lie  toiled  so  long,  and  won  an  honored  fame, 

It  is  almost  as  though  he  had  not  been. 

Amid  the  earnest  councils  of  the  land 
His  lofty  form,  his  cold  and  clear-cut  face, 

His  even  voice  and  wise  restraining  hand 
Are  known  no  more,  and  others  take  his  place. 

Within  this  haunt  of  quietude  and  rest 
Which  for  so  many  years  he  loved  and  knew, 

The  bird  comes  back  to  build  its  annual  nest, 
The  months  return  with  sun  and  snow  and  dew; 

Nature  lives  on,  though  prince  or  statesman  dies; 

Thus  mockingly  these  little  lives  of  ours 
So  brief,  so  transient,  seem  to  emphasize 

The  immortality  of  birds  and  flowers  1 


XVIII. 

JOHN,  THE   FLY. 

PERSONS  who  have  an  affectionate  temperament,  but 
neither  the  time,  the  talent  nor  the  fine  clothes  ne 
cessary  to  enable  them  to  have  many  friends,  are  very 
likely  to  take  kindly  to  pets.  For  this  reason,  or  some 
other,  Brunette,  who,  one  sharp  morning,  was  diligent 
ly  dusting  the  picture  frames  with  an  old  tissue  veil, 
which  in  this  frugal  household,  did  duty  for  a  feather 
duster,  exclaimed  with  sudden  animation,  "  Well,  if 
there  is  n't  a  live  fly  this  awfully  cold  morning !  Do 
you  suppose  he  has  just  hatched,  or  has  he  been  hiding 
about,  ever  since  his  friends  vanished  ?  There  he 
goes! — how  summery  his  wings  sound!  But,  dear 
me,  one  fly  does  n't  make  a  summer,  any  more  than 
one  swallow." 

"  One  fly  would  be  as  many  as  I  should  care  to 
swallow  at  a  time,"  observed  the  mother,  "  and  doubt 
less  —  " 

"  What  becomes  of  all  the  flies  in  the  fall  ?  "  ques 
tioned  Brunette,  diving  abruptly  into  entomology,  as 
she  watched  the  solitary  insect  sailing  across  the 
room;  "and  why,  just  before  they  disappear,  do  they 
suddenly  turn  carnivorous,  and  bite  so  ?  " 

"  And  what  makes  'em,  when  they  feel  sick,  go  and 

189 


190  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

hang  themselves  up  by  one  leg,  and  die,  and  turn  blue- 
mouldy?"  queried  Bob,  who  always  had  a  question 
ready. 

"It's  hard  accounting  for  their  disappearance," 
replied  the  mother,  who,  like  most  heads  of  families, 
hated  to  say  "  I  don't  know"  to  any  question.  UA 
great  many  of  them  are  eaten  in  soup  during  the 
season  ;  blueberry-cake  and  pies  offer  great  induce 
ments  to  those  who  wish  to  commit  suicide  without 
anybody's  knowing  it ;  early  mince  turnovers  are  also 
excellent  places  of  concealment  for  them  when  they 
are  weary  of  the  world  ;  some  are  drowned  in  milk- 
pitchers,  and  some  are  killed  by  getting  into  the 
mouths  of  sleeping  church-goers;  and  the  few  who 
remain  until  cold  weather,  go  out  of  doors  and  freeze 
up  with  the  country.  And  naturalists  say  that  the  fly 
which  bites  so  in  the  fall  is  not  the  same  kind  of  fly 
at  all,  but  only  similar  in  appearance ;  and  he  does  n't 
bite  in  July  because  he  is  n't  born  until  September  or 
October  —  which  is  fortunate  for  us.  But  we '11  let 
this  fly  stay  with  us  ;  I  like  to  hear  him  buzz,"  con 
cluded  she,  wisely  ignoring  the  other  question. 

And  so  the  belated  insect  was  domesticated  in  the 
family;  indeed,  within  a  day  or  two,  he  was  actually 
named,  and  was  familiar  to  all  the  household  as 
"  John,"  and  became  a  welcome  and  privileged  guest 
at  the  table  and  fireside.  He  seemed  to  appreciate 
his  popularity,  being  always  looked  after  and  pro 
tected  from  all  the  dangers  which  beset  his  kind. 

Of  course,  as  the  sole  survivor  of  his  race,  he  at 


JOHN,   THE   FLY.  191 

once  developed  unusual  excellencies.  One  said  he  was 
uncommonly  intelligent ;  one  thought  his  wings  re 
markably  fine  when  seen  through  a  magnifier ;  and 
Bob  declared  that  he  had  uncommon  speed  and  grace 
of  flight,  and  tremendous  staying  power  on  the  wing. 
Indeed,  Bob  was  sure  that  this  was  the 

"  Fly  like  a  youthful  hart  or  roe," 

which  the  hymn  tells  about ;  and  Brunette  used  to 
take  him  on  her  finger  and  sing, 

"  Fly  to  the  desert,  fly,  with  me." 

John  used  to  visit  the  sugar-bowl  quite  regularly  at 
breakfast-time,  and  gradually  developed  a  degree  of 
docility  quite  surprising.  Even  the  mother,  who  was 
generally  greatly  favored  by  the  confidence  and  famil 
iarity  of  dumb  creatures,  was  astonished  when,  one 
morning,  as  she  playfully  pretended  to  pat  him  on  the 
head,  while  he  sat  washing  his  face  on  the  brim  of  the 
spoonholder,  he  suddenly  ceased  ducking  his  head  and 
rubbing  his  hands  together,  crawled  upon  her  finger, 
walked  up  her  hand  and  settled  himself  affectionately 
on  the  edge  of  her  wristband. 

"  He  's  getting  tame,"  said  Bob,  delighted.  "  He  's 
getting  stupid,  more  likely,"  said  Brunette.  "  What 
with  old  age  and  cold  weather,  he  's  actually  so  logy 
that  he  does  n't  know  enough  to  fly  away  when  one 
brushes  him ! " 

"  Alas !  "  said  the  mother  —  (adding  in  parenthesis, 
"  I  know  nobody  ever  says  '  alas '  out  of  print,  but 
here  's  a  case  where  it  applies)  —  that  's  all  the  credit 


192  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

amiability  ever  gets,  in  this  world!  Because  John, 
subdued  by  misfortune,  toned  down  by  experience,  and 
forsaken  by  his  own  kind,  turns  to  human  beings  for 
sympathy,  he  is  at  once  voted  stupid,  feeble,  and  what 
is  worse,  «  logy.'  I  maybe  stupid;  I  shall  probably 
some  day  be  feeble ;  but  I  hope  to  mercy,  nobody  will 
ever  so  far  outrage  my  feelings  as  to  call  me  '  lo^y.'  " 

But  whether  John's  docility  was  an  outgrowth  of 
stupidity  or  amiability,— and  it  is  hard  telling  which  is 
the  more  disastrous  attribute  in  this  world,  where  pre 
ternatural  sharpness  and  severity  are  so  necessary, 

he  persisted  in  it ;  and  would  travel  across  people's 
eyelids  and  along  their  lips  with  the  utmost  fearless 
ness,  so  that  it  was  almost  necessary  for  the  victim  to 
pick  him  off  with  thumb  and  finger.  Once,  to  be  sure, 
when  Bob  was  engaged  in  play,  Jojin  returned  so  per- 
severingly  to  attack  his  left  eye,  that  Bob,  quite  for 
getting  that  flies  were  scarce,  gave  him  an  impatient 
slap  which  sent  him  tumbling  to  the  floor  with  a  little 
thud,  where  he  lay  prone  on  his  back  with  his  six 
elbows  sticking  out  in  the  deadest  manner;  but  just  as 
Bobby  cried  out  with  sudden  remorse  at  his  thought 
less  deed,  John  suddenly  recovered  himself  and  flew 
heavily  to  the  window,  where  he  spent  the  rest  of  the 
morning  in  rubbing  his  bruised  head  and  cleaning  his 
finger-nails,  soothed  and  mollified  by  Bob's  profuse 
apologies  and  a  long  streak  of  molasses  which  the 
latter  drizzled  across  the  window-sill  as  a  peace- 
offering  and  pledge  of  unabated  affection.  Indeed, 
the  heaps  of  sugar,  the  slops  of  milk,  and  the  dabs  of 


JOHN,   THE  FLY.  193 

scraped  apple  which  Bob  deposited  on  the  plant-stand, 
the  bureau  and  the  window-shelf,  for  John's  refresh 
ment  and  support,  would  have  been  sufficient  to  keep 
all  the  flies  that  ever  plagued  Egypt. 

Many  and  blood-curdling  were  John's  hair-breadth 
escapes.  More  than  once  he  was  found,  after  a  cold 
night,  senseless  and  torpid,  on  the  wall  of  the  kitchen, 
when  the  fire  had  failed  to  keep  over  night.  On  such 
occasions  he  was  brought  tenderly  in  and  warmed  by 
the  dining-room  stove,  and  urged  affectionately  to  stay 
on  the  mantel-piece  behind  the  stove-pipe,  until  the 
kitchen  temperature  should  rise  a  little.  More  than 
once  he  was  rescued  from  the  steaming  brink  of  the 
soup-tureen,  and  removed  from  temptation ;  more  than 
once  he  was  found  feebly  struggling  in  the  wash-bowl 
and  carefully  dried  on  a  soft  towel ;  and  once,  when 
the  mother  was  wiping  the  floor,  she  saw  him,  soaked 
and  wilted  by  warm  water,  rolling  over  and  kicking 
ineffectually  under  the  edge  of  the  mop-cloth.  But 
even  that  shock  he  survived  triumphantly ;  though  it 
was  afterward  hdf-suspected  that  a  process  of  one  of 
his  middle  legs  was  injured  in  the  struggle,  since  he 
never  seemed  to  have  complete  control  of  it  afterward. 
Thereafter,  more  caution  was  observed ;  Brunette  was 
careful  to  see  that  he  did  not  follow  her  into  the  cold 
hall  when  she  went  up-stairs  to  bed  ;  and  it  was  said 
that  the  mother  never  closed  a  door  without  first  look 
ing  to  see  if  John  were  in  the  crack. 

One  day  a  neighbor,  pretty  Mrs.  Brier,  called.  She 
had  not  been  seated  five  minutes  when  John  flew  into 
9 


194  THE  TKIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

the  room,  and  perched  directly  on  the  tip  of  her  little 
white  nose.  She  shook  him  off,  but  John  returned 
again,-  and  yet  again,  until  she  was  on  the  point  of 
settling  him  with  a  sharp  spat,  when  Brunette  cried 
out,  "  Don't  kill  him  —  that's  John,  the  only  pet  we 
have." 

"Pet?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Brier,  merrily,  "a  fly? 
Why,  I  had  a  dozen  over  at  my  house ;  and  I  watched 
until  they  alighted  low  enough  for  me  to  reach  'em, 
and  killed  them  all  with  the  slap  of  a  newspaper.  Our 
morning  paper  is  first-rate  for  that.  It  comes  down 
solid,  and  they  never  know  what  hurts  them.  I  wish 
I  had  known  you  liked 'em  —  you  should  have  had 
'em  every  one." 

"  Oil,  no,"  replied  Brunette,  "  it  is  only  John's  soli 
tariness  that  makes  us  prize  him.  He  is  the  only  one 
of  his  race,  and  so  we  have  a  corner  in  flies." 

"  I  should  prefer  to  have  my  flies  in  a  corner,"  ob 
served  pretty  Mrs.  Brier,  good-naturedly  defending  her 
nose  against  John's  persistent  forays,  and  forbearing 
to  punish  him  as  he  deserved.  But  all  visitors  could 
not  be  depended  on  for  such  forbearance,  and  when 
gentlemen-callers  were  expected,  John  was  carefully 
\\  afted  out  of  the  room  with  a  handkerchief  or  an 
apron,  beforehand. 

One  time,  Brunette,  who  had  peculiar  ideas  of 
amusement,  took  a  fancy  to  have  a  candy-pull ;  a  style 
of  entertainment  which  may  be  relied  on  as  the  most 
noisy,  the  most  mussy,  the  most  absurd,  and  altogether 
the  most  ridiculous  known  to  New  England.  The 


JOHN,   THE  FLY.  195 

t 

syrup  was  procured,  the  kettle  scoured  bright  as  gold, 
and  all  things  made  ready.  "  Brunette,"  said  the 
mother,  prophetically,  "  I  feel  certain  that  John's  man 
gled  corpse  will  be  boiled  up  in  that  candy  —  and  flies' 
legs  are  no  improvement  to  taffy." 

A  strict  watch  was  kept  over  the  stove,  although 
John  was  supposed  to  be  safely  shut  up  in  the  china- 
closet  ;  but  when,  after  a  minute's  absence  from  the 
room,  the  mother  returned  just  in  season  to  prevent 
the  overflow  of  the  kettle,  she  descried  John,  with 
despair's  dark  fires  dull  smouldering  in  his  eye,  and 
evidently  bent  on  suicide,  resting  on  the  kettle-bail,  on 
the  very  brink  of  the  boiling  gulf  of  molasses.  It  was 
a  delicate  matter  to  remove  him  without  sending  him 
headlong  to  his  doom,  but  at  last  he  was  rescued,  and 
confined  in  the  wardrobe,  until  safer  times. 

One  morning  when  it  was  exceeding  cold  —  cold 
enough  to  make  the  sleigh-runners  squeak  and  groan 
along  the  streets,  —  cold  enough,  almost,  to  drive  the 
loafers  away  from  the  door  of  the  Preble  House,  the 
mother,  on  lifting  the  window-curtain,  found  the  panes 
thick  with  frost,  and  John  hanging  by  three  legs  to 
the  curtain-cord. 

"  Gone  at  last,"  said  she.  "  I  thought  we  might  keep 
him  over  winter.  Poor  thing !  I  wonder  if  he  was 
chilled  to  death,  or  only  died  of  natural  decay  ?  " 

"Natural  fiddlesticks,"  said  Brunette.  "He  died 
just  because  we  tried  to  keep  him  alive.  If  we  had 
tried  to  kill  him,  he  would  have  lived  forever,  and 


196  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

increased  and  multiplied  until  the  house  would  n't  hold 
him." 

"  Is  he  blue-mouldy  ?  "  inquired  Bob,  remembering  the 
f ungousy  way  in  which  some  of  John's  predecessors  had 
been  taken  off.  The  mother  was  just  about  to  place 
him  in  Bob's  hand  for  an  autopsy,  when  the  supposed 
moribund,  with  a  loud  buzz,  plunged  heavily  across 
the  room,  and  alighted  on  a  gas-globe. 

But  one  morning  John  was  not  at  breakfast,  neither 
could  he  be  found.  For  some  days  his  flight  had  been 
languid  and  lumbering,  and  his  appetite  poor. 

Bob  declared  that  the  poor  thing  had  not  eaten 
enough  to  keep  a  chicken  alive,  which  was  true 
enough,  but  failed  to  convey  the  idea  of  extreme 
abstinence  which  Bob  intended  to  express.  By  and 
by  John  was  discovered,  standing  bolt  upright  on  a 
window-sash,  with  a  rigidity  of  expression  and  a  stiff 
ness  of  legs  which  betokened  him  as  dead  as  the  late 
lamented  Julius  Cesar. 

"  He  is  n't  a  bit  blue-mouldy,"  exclaimed  Bob. 
"  I  'm  glad  he  died  decently  ;  but  it  must  have  been 
awful  sudden,  for  he  did  n't  even  have  time  to  shut 
Ids  eyes."  Poor  Bob  was  quite  deeply  affected,  and 
though  it  seemed  impracticable  to  bury  John  in  the 
garden,  on  account  of  two  or  three  feet  of  snow,  and 
frozen  ground  underneath,  and  the  mother  favored 
cremation,  still  Bobby  employed  his  immediate  leisure 
in  composing  an  epitaph,  which  he  wrote  on  a  cedar 
shingle,  to  b«  erected  under  the  lilac-bushes  next  sum- 


JOHN,    THE  FLY.  197 

mer  in  memory  of  John.  Nearly  every  s  in  the  epi 
taph  faced  the  wrong  way,  and  every  n  was  wrong- 
side-to  ;  but  the  sentiment  was  right  side  out,  so  those 
trifles  were  of  no  account.  It  ran  as  follows  : 

When  other  flies 

Gets  sick  and  dies 
Nobody  cares  and  nobody  cries  ; 

33ut  now  our  John 

Is  dead  and  gone, 
Everybody  's  taking  on, 
For  we  was  very  fond  of  him, 
Poor  Jim! 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  said  Brunette,  with  that 
tone  of  peremptory  criticism  which,  somehow,  every 
body  feels  at  liberty  to  take  when  addressing  a  poet,  — 
especially  a  poet  who  works  for  love,  not  money,  — 
"  Who  's  Jim  ?  John  never  was  Jim,  and  you  know 
it." 

"  I  know,"  explained  Bob,  biting  his  pencil  in  some 
confusion,  "  but  he  never  will  know  what  is  on  his 
gravestone,  and  you  see  yourself  that  John  would  n't 
rhyme." 


XIX. 

THE  FIFTH   TRIANGULAR. 

"You  would  be  surprised,"  said  Brunette  one 
evening  as  the  home  Society  gathered  about  the  table, 
"  to  know  how  large  an  acquaintance  I  have  among 
the  babies  and  young  children  of  this  town.  If  I 
should  go  out  in  the  streets  and  summon  them  to 
gether,  I  should  have  as  large  a  following  as  the  Pied 
Piper." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  find  time  to  make  acquain 
tances,"  observed  the  mother. 

"  I  do  not,  with  grown  people,"  replied  Brunette, 
"  but  children  are  more  open  to  conviction ;  they  are 
won  by  good-  behavior,  you  know,  by  a  smile  and  a 
pleasant  word.  I  see  them,  as  I  pass,  at  the  doors,  at 
the  windows,  going  to  school,  or  busy  at  play.  I  smile 
at  them,  and,  presently,  speak  to  them ;  and  in  a  little 
while,  we  are  good  friends.  I  am  on  excellent  terms 
with  dozens  of  children  whose  parents  I  never  saw." 

"  But  you  told  me?  said  Bob,  with  an  aggrieved 
air,  "that  I  must  not  make  the  acquaintance  of 
strangers  in  the  street." 

"It  was  very  good  advice,"  replied  his  sister,  "but 
a  person  who  passes  your  door  at  regular  hours  three 
hundred  odd  days  in  the  year,  can  hardly  be  called  a 
198 


THE  FIFTH  TRIANGULAR.  199 

stranger,  in  any  dangerous  sense.  And,  Bob,  when 
you  have  met,  as  many  times  as  that,  a  nice,  sensible, 
distinguished-looking  young  woman,  with  a  responsible 
expression  of  countenance,  and  a  load  of  books  on  her 
arm,  you  need  n't  be  afraid  to  make  her  acquaint 
ance  —  if  she  '11  allow  it." 

"  Of  course  I  sha'n't,"  said  Bob,  rather  sheepishly, 
"  I  'm  too  big  a  boy  to  be  petted  in  the  street." 

"  Yes,  perhaps  so,"  said  Brunette,  4t  you  're  about 
as  large  as  the  bad  boys  who  call  me  an  '  old  school- 
ma'am  '  when  I  stop  them  from  throwing  stones  at 
dogs,  or  prevent  them  from  bullying  little  children. 
It  's  a  very  bad  size  for  boys,  —  the  size  that  picks 
cigar  stumps  out  of  the  gutters,  and  goes  along  the 
peaceable  streets,  yelling  like  a  cat'a-mountain,  or  like 
a  wild  Indian  at  a  war-dance." 

"  I  'm  sure  Bob  does  none  of  those  things,"  said  the 
mother,  quick  to  defend  her  youngest-born. 

"  Bob  has  more  self-respect  than  half  the  young  men, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  bad  boys,"  said  his  sister.  "  I 
was  n't  accusing  Bob.  Bob  actually  knows  enough  to 
raise  his  hat  when  he  meets  his  elders,  and  to  remove 
it  altogether  when  he  enters  the  presence  of  ladies  or 
gentlemen.  Bob  never  walks  four  abreast  and  crowds 
all  comers  off  the  sidewalk ;  Bob  never  congregates 
at  the  corners  and  stares  people  out  of  countenance ; 
Bob  never  makes  impertinent  remarks  about  strangers 
on  purpose  for  them  to  hear ;  Bob  never  smokes  in 
people's  faces ;  in  short,  I  wish  there  were  more  of 
Bob,  and  fewer  of  his  inferiors.  A  neighborhood 


200  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

where  all  the  boys  were  Bobs,  would  be  a  nice,  quiet, 
comfortable  place  to  live  in,  with  mischief  enough 
going  to  make  it  interesting,  and  racket  enough  for 
cheerfulness." 

Bob  always  looked  more  shamefaced  when  he  was 
commended  then  when  he  was  blamed ;  but  praise  was 
very  sweet  to  him,  as  to  most  boys,  of  all  sizes ;  and 
although  he  pretended  to  be  altogether  preoccupied 
with  his  scrap-book,  he  heard  and  appreciated  every 
word  his  sister  uttered,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  give 
a  favorable  verdict  on  whatever  she  might  read. 

"  But  Bob  is  much  older  than  the  mass  of  my  juve 
nile  friends,"  went  on  Brunette.  "  They  are  the  little 
fellows  who  flatten  their  noses  against  the  window- 
pane  and  crow  at  me  as  I  go  by,  or  play  about  the 
door-step,  or  on  the  walk  in  sight  of  their  mother's 
window.  I  have  no  time  for  calls,  or  visits,  or  parties, 
and  I  depend  on  these  small  men  and  women,  mostly, 
for  outside  society.  And  now  I  will  read  you  what 
they  suggested  to  me." 


THE  BABY'S  SMILE. 

As  through  the  busy  street  I  pass, 

Often,  in  sun  or  rain, 
I  mark  some  pleasant  household  group 

Behind  a  window-pane; 
The  mother  is  politely  blind, 

The  father  does  not  see, 
But  if  a  baby  face  is  there, 

The  baby  smiles  at  me. 


THE  FIFTH  TRIANGULAR.  201 

Dear  sinless  soul  of  babyhood  I 

She  does  not  coldly  wait 
To  ask  about  my  bank-account, 

Or  bonds,  or  real  estate; 
With  small  soft  face  against  the  pane, 

And  dove-like  coo  the  while, 
She  beckons  with  her  dainty  hand, 

And  answers  back  my  smile. 

She  does  not  scorn  my  glance  because 

She  never  heard  my  name, 
Nor  query  of  my  social  place, 

Nor  question  whence  I  came; 
No  tedious  rule  of  etiquette 

Restrains  her  loving  grace, 
Or  chills  the  winning  smile  that  lights 

Her  lovely  wild-flower  face. 

She  knows  me  by  that  nameless  sense, 

That  wisdom  sweet  and  fine, 
Which  babies  have,  ere  time  has  spoiled 

Their  innocence  divine; 
That  strange,  unerring  magnetism 

Which  some  kind  angel  sends, 
By  which  all  sinless  things  perceive 

And  recognize  their  friends ; 

The  silent  sympathy  which  makes 

The  homeless  dog  I  meet 
Forget  his  hungry  lonesomeness 

To  fawn  about  my  feet; 
Which  draws  the  pigeons  to  my  hand, 

Fearless  and  trustful  still, 
And  makes  the  social  sparrows  crowd 

My  friendly  window-sill. 

9* 


202  THE   TRIANGULAR  SOCIETY. 

Ah!  though  the  world  seems  full,  sometimes, 

Of  darkness  and  of  dust, 
The  soul  is  not  quite  desolate 

Which  birds  and  babies  trust; 
Life  is  not  all  a  wilderness, 

Made  up  of  grief  and  guile, 
"While  eyes  so  shadowless  and  sweet 

Smile  back  to  eyes  that  smile  I 

« I  like  that,"  said  Bob,  heartily,  «  and  I  love  babies, 
dearly.  Billy  Brown's  baby-sister  loves  me  better  than 
she  does  him,  any  day." 

"  That  's  because  you  tackle  more  kindly  to  her 
perambulator,"  said  his  mother.  "  I  see  you  chained  to 
her  chariot  very  often.  Yes,  babies  are  good  friends  ; 
they  don't  insist  on  form  and  ceremony,  and  they  are 
not  punctilious  respecters  of  persons.  And  children 
do  not  always  forget  their  friends,  either,"  she  con 
tinued,  —  "  hear  this." 

A  COUNTRY  SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

I  see  a  picture  in  the  air; 

A  country  school-house,  low  and  square, 
"With  plain  pine  desks  and  dusty  floor, 
And  whittlings  all  about  the  door; 

A  boyish  teacher,  young  but  wise, 

With  gentle  face  and  kindly  eyes  — 
And,  faltering  through  her  lessons  there, 
A  little  girl  with  yellow  hair. 

How  shy  she  was!  what  real  distress, 
What  conscious  sense  of  awkwardness 
Burned  in  quick  color  on  her  cheek, 
When  came  her  dreaded  turn  to  speak! 


THE  FIFTH   TRIANGULAR.  203 

How  kind  he  was!  his  ready  aid 
Assured  her  timid  soul,  and  made 

The  path  of  study  plain  and  sweet 

Before  her  hesitating  feet. 

How  long,  how  long  ago  it  seems  I 
Like  some  fair  vision  seen  in  dreams, — 

That  cool  bright  autumn  time  of  yore, 

When  he,  a  bashful  sophomore, 
With  cheek  that  changed  from  pale  to  red, 
Taught  to  a  puzzled  yellow  head  — 

His  youngest  pupil,  in  whose  eyes 

Xot  Solomon  was  half  so  wise  — 
Within  that  country  school-room's  walls, 
The  mysteries  of  decimals. 

Alas,  alas!  to  what  intent 

That  labor  over  rate  per  cent., 
And  toil  at  compound  interest, 
By  one  with  nothing  to  invest  ? 

Whose  only  venture,  was,  in  truth, 
.  The  vague,  sweet  hope,  the  faith  of  youth, 
Which  early  dwindled  to  its  end, 
Kor  paid  a  single  dividend  ? 

"No  school-girl  now  his  peace  disturbs 

By  tremulous  tilts  at  nouns  and  verbs  — 
Alas,  how  fast  the  years  have  flown! 
Now  he  has  children  of  his  own, 

Tall  boys  in  college,  girls  in  trains;  — 

His  busy  heart  no  more  retains 
The  features  of  that  child  of  ten, 
Who  made  a  hero  of  him  then, 


204  THE  TKIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Than  Sandy  Kiver  keeps,  this  hour, 
The  face  of  some  wild  meadow-flower, 

Which  grew  and  blossomed,  shy  and  low, 

Beside  it,  twenty  years  ago. 

Yet  it  is  more  than  many  gain, 
In  this  estate  of  change  and  pain, 

To  be  forever  set  apart 

The  hero  of  a  thankful  heart, 
Within  that  temple  undefiled, 
The  grateful  memory  of  a  child ;  — 

To  hold,  in  spite  of  time  and  space, 

So  sacred  and  secure  a  place 
As  with  a  truth  that  naught  can  dim, 
Her  womanhood  still  keeps  for  him. 

"  I  hope  some  of  my  little  friends  will  remember 
me  as  faithfully  as  that,"  said  Brunette.  "Perhaps 
they  would,  if  I  were  a  school-teacher.  Bob,  do  you 
believe  you  will  be  as  constant  to  the  memory  of  any 
one  of  your  teachers  ?  "  t 

"  It 's  a  great  deal  more  fun  to  go  to  school  in  the 
country  than  in  town,"  said  Bob,  dodging  her  ques 
tion.  "I  went  to  school  a  few  days  once  when  I 
was  in  the  country,  and  it  was  n't  half  so  tiresome. 
The  birds  sang  close  to  the  school-house,  and  a  big 
butterfly  came  in  at  the  window.  No,  I  don't  think 
I  like  school  much,"  said  candid  Bob, "  and  I  think  it 's 
all  nonsense  singing  about  how  we  love  our  teachers, 
and  we  're  glad  vacation  's  over,  and  all  that.  I  know 
I  *m  never  glad  when  vacation 's  over.  But  I  had  some- 


THE   FIFTH   TRIANGULAR.  205 

tiling  to  read  about  a  baby  —  something  I  found  in  an 
old  newspaper." 

THE  SUNSHINE  SONG. 
A  little  child  of  three  bright  years 
Undimmed  by  care,  unstained  by  tears,  — 
From  whose  pure  soul  was  not  yet  riven 
The  music  of  its  native  heaven, 
Implored  and  pleaded,  oft  and  long. 
"  O  mother,  sing  the  sunshine  song  !  " 

The  mother  sang  full  many  an  air, 
The  gay,  the  sad,  the  sweet,  the  rare, 
But  none  could  please  the  listening  child, 
Who  shook  her  head,  and  sadly  smiled, 
As  one  who  chides  a  grievous  wrong, 


O  mother,  sing  the  sunshine  song  I 


" 


"  Alas!  "  the  mother's  voice  replies, 
While  tears  drop  softly  from  her  eyes,  — 
"  I  know  it  not,  —  I  never  heard 
The  sunshine  song,  my  singing-bird!  " 
Yet  still  she  pleaded,  oft  and  long, 
"  O  mother,  sing  the  sunshine  song!  " 

Spring  came;  and  ere  its  reign  was  past, 
The  child's  sweet  life  was  ebbing  fast; 
And  through  her  long  delirious  hours 
Her  lispings  were  of  bees  and  flowers, 
Mingled  and  saddened,  all  night  long, 
With  pleadings  for  the  sunshine  song. 


206  THE   TKIANGULAB    SOCIETY. 

Hours  passed;  and  on  her  mother's  knee 

The  child  lay  dying;  suddenly 

She  clasped  her  little  faded  hands,— 

"  O  mother,  hear!  —  those  shining  bands  — 

—  The  tune  I  've  waited  for  so  long,  — 

Mother,  they  sing  the  sunshine  song!  " 

The  lifted  hands  fell  feebly  down, — 
Death's  white  hand  rested  like  a  crown 
Upon  her  brow;  —  in  holy  grace 
Her  face  was  as  an  angel's  face; 
And  she  had  joined  the  seraph-throng 
Who  sing,  in  heaven,  the  sunshine  song. 

"  Bob,  my  Bob,  that  is  n't  a  bit  merry,"  said  his 
sister.  "  I  '11  read  you  something  funnier  —  something 
that  happened  to  a  nice  young  gentleman  friend  of  ours 
the  other  day  at  the  islands.  Every  word  true,  too." 

A  MOONLIGHT   EXCURSION. 

Of  all  the  disappointments  in  life,  not  one  is  so  funny, 
to  lookers-on,  as  that  which  sometimes  waits  on  a  day's 
attempt  at  harmless  pleasure.  If  persons  who  do  only 
evil,  and  that  continually,  were  so  foiled  and  balked  and 
baffled  in  their  vicious  plans,  as  is  the  most  respectable 
citizen,  sometimes,  when  he  is  trying  to  be  innoxiously 
happy,  the  criminal  list  of  the  country  would  be  much 
shorter. 

A  gentleman  of  this  town,  whom  the  chronicler  will 
designate  as  Jones,  chiefly  because  no  one  else  does, 
lately  formed  a  plan  to  join  a  so-called  moonlight  excur 
sion  on  the  Tourist,  and  enjoy  a  dance  at  Peak's  Island. 


THE  FIFTH  TRIANGULAR.  207 

From  that  moment  the  demon  of  ill-luck  claimed  him 
for  its  sport.  lie  called  on  two  young  ladies  to  request 
their  company,  but  they  were  both  absent.  He  made 
another  trial,  but  lady  number  three  was  also  away  from 
home.  A  fourth  attempt  was  successful,  but  as  the  invi 
tation  was  necessarily  somewhat  late,  the  lady  was  not 
ready,  and  her  cavalier  was  obliged  to  wait  a  few 
minutes. 

A  few  minutes  too  long,  as  appeared  when  they 
arrived  at  the  Tourist's  wharf,  and  dimly  beheld  her 
steaming  away  into  the  distance,  with  a  vigor  and  speed 
which  would  have  been  much  more  satisfactory  if  the 
tw«  observers  had  been  on  board.  But  Mr.  Jones  was 
not  one  to  be  balked  in  this  way.  He  had  invited  the 
lady  to  a  dance  on  Peak's  Island,  and  to  a  dance  on 
Peak's  Island  she  should  go.  It  was  discouragingly 
dark  ;  all  the  u  moonlight"  of  the  excursion  appeared  to 
have  been  expended  in  the  advertisement.  But  moon 
light  or  not,  he  was  going. 

Presently,  by  a  lucky  accident,  or  what  seemed  so  at 
the  time,  he  descried  two  men  just  pushing  off  in  a  row- 
boat,  and  in  desperation,  offered  them  "  a  silver  pound  " 
or  so,  to  row  his  select  party  to  Peak's  Island.  "  Money  's 
no  object,"  they  observed;  "can  you  row?"  No,  he 
could  not  row;  he  could  catch  crabs  with  the  best,  but 
oars  in  the  rough  he  knew  little  about.  But  finally,  the 
boatmen,  who  turned  out  to  be  a  couple  of  campers-out 
on  Hog  Island,  about  to  return  there,  very  kindly  con 
sented  to  take  the  pair  on  board,  and  went  out  of  their 
way,  of  course,  to  land  them  at  their  desired  haven. 

On  arriving,  Mr.  Jones  rose  up  in  the  darkness,  for 
sombre  thunder-clouds  were  gathering,  selected  his  lug 
gage —  he  had  been  wise  enough  to  bring  an  overcoat, 


208  THE   TBI  ANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

and,  of  course,  the  lady  had  brought  a  waterproof,  —  and 
went  ashore,  with  many  thanks  to  the  unsuspecting  gen 
tlemen  who  had  shown  him  so  much  courtesy. 

On  reaching  the  halls  of  dazzling  light  where  the  fan 
tastic  toe  was  already  in  motion,  what  was  Mr.  Jones' 
surprise  to  find  that  the  bundle  which  he  had  selected 
as  his  lady  companion's  water-proof,  was  really  not  hers 
at  all,  which  she  had  at  that  minute  on  her  shoulders. 
On  being  unrolled,  it  proved  to  be  an  unfamiliar  coat  and 
vest,  and,  oh,  horror!  in  the  pocket  of  the  latter  were  a 
fat  pocket-book,  a  gold  watch,  and  various  other  valua 
bles.  What  had  he  done  ?  He  had  rewarded  the  kind 
ness  of  the  gentlemanly  Hog  Islanders  by  stealing  theip 
clothes,  their  chronometer,  and  their  money  ;  he  had 
been  guilty  of  a  sort  of  aquatic  highway  robbery,  a  high 
handed  outrage  on  the  high  seas,  which  he  at  once 
thought  it  high  time  to  atone  for. 

Down  to  the  wharf  he  went  again,  in  the  threatening 
darkness,  tugging  the  ill-starred  bundle,  and  after  some 
delay  and  worry,  succeeded  in  bargaining  with  two  of 
the  salty  veterans  who  seem  to  haunt  wharves,  like  the 
ghosts  of  wicked  sailors  doomed  somehow  never  to  get 
away  from  port,  to  take  him  over  to  Hog  Island,  where 
he  could  eat  a  suitable  piece  of  humble-pie,  and  return 
the  confiscated  property.  Music  might  arise  with  its 
voluptuous  swell  on  Peak's  Island,  and  eyes  might  look 
love  to  eyes  that  spake  again,  but  as  for  him,  he  must 
lose  the  rosy  hours  in  penitential  pilgrimage. 

Arriving  at  Hog  Island,  he  was  quite  as  much  at  sea  as 
ever,  since  he  had  no  sort  of  notion  as  to  the  locality  of 
the  persons  he  sought;  but  after  a  while,  he  managed  to 
descry  a  distant  light  in  the  darkness,  and  pursuing,  find 
it  in  the  camp  of  his  benefactors.  Only  to  discover,  how- 


THE   FIFTH   TRIANGULAR.  200 

ever,  that  the  irate  owner  of  the  bundle,  stung  by  the 
apparent  ingratitude  of  his  whilom  passenger,  had  gone 
to  Peak's  Island  to  overhaul  him. 

After  a  few  minutes'  explanation,  Mr.  Jones  re-em 
barked  for  Peak's  Island,  gaining  the  wharf  in  time  to 
find  the  brilliant  company  of  dancers,  whose  sport  he 
had  hoped  to  join,  merrily  embarking  in  the  steamer  for 
home.  They  had  had  a  delightful  dance,  while  he  —  he 
had  only  been  dancing  attendance  on  another  man's 
clothes,  a  victim  to  a  keen  sense  of  honor  and  honesty. 

But  he  had  learned  two  things:  never  to  claim  a  bun 
dle  without  examining  it,  and  never  to  persist  in  a 
pleasure-chase,  after  the  first  step  has  proved  that  Fate 
has  got  her  back  up,  and  does  n't  intend  to  smile  on  the 
undertaking. 

"  What  dreadful  luck ! "  said  the  mother,  laughing. 
"  It  was  really  too  bad  for  him  to  lose  all  his  promised 
sport,  and  have  so  miserable  an  evening,  for  no  real 
fault  of  his  own,"  and  she  laughed  again.  "  It  does 
seem  odd  that  the  stars  in  their  courses  so  often  seem 
to  put  all  manner  of  obstacles  in  the  way  of  a  harm 
less  pleasure,  or  a  really  good  deed." 

"  Especially,"  said  Brunette,  "  when  the  man  who 
starts  to  do  an  evil  thing  is  apt  to  find  everything 
consenting  and  helpful.  Probably  if  Mr.  Jones  had 
started  for  the  islands  with  intent  to  commit  murder, 
or  set  the  hotel  on  fire,  everything  would  have  turned 
to  his  assistance.  He  would  have  been  in  ample  time 
for  the  steamer ;  there  would  n't  have  been  a  person 
on  board  who  knew  him  ;  his  purposed  victim  would 


210  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

have  met  him  at  the  wharf,  and  proposed  to  accom 
pany  him  on  a  lonesome  walk  along  the  most  unfre 
quented  rocks.  And  he  would  have  found  a  box  of 
matches  in  the  path  leading  to  the  hotel,  and  a  basket 
of  shavings  on  the  back-door  step,  while  the  kerosene- 
can  would  have  been  distinctly  visible  on  the  sill  of 
the  open  window  in  the  kitchen.  The  deceiver  of 
souls  generally  looks  out  for  his  own.  But  I  don't 
think  you  are  very  sorry  for  Mr.  Jones,  bless  him  ! " 

"  I  certainly  don't  rejoice  in  anybody's  disappoint 
ment,"  said  the  mother,  "  and  for  his  sake  I  am  sorry. 
But  on  the  other  hand,  I  think  other  people's  annoy 
ances  are  sometimes  a  good  thing  for  ourselves,  in  this 
way.  If  that  string  of  misfortunes  had  happened  to 
you  or  me.  now,  we  should  have  said  at  once  :  '  Just 
my  luck !  nobody  else  is  ever  so  badgered  by  fate  !  ' 
And  yet  you  see  that  just  such  accidents  happen  to 
others,  others  who  are  just  as  deserving,  amiable  and 
good-looking  as  ourselves.  By  this  light,  it  sometimes 
does  me  good  to  reflect  on  other  people's  mis 
fortunes." 

"  And  speaking  of  the  islands,"  remarked  Brunette, 
"  I  will  read  you  a  bit  about  Casco  Bay,  and  then  it 
will  be  time  to  break  up  meeting." 

TO   CASCO  BAY. 
Beautiful  bay!  I  gladly  fly 

Down  to  the  shore  where  your  waves  beat  high, — 
There  's  nobody  here  but  you  and  me, 
oSTobody  here  to  hear  or  see, 


THE   FIFTH   TRIANGULAR.  211 

Our  only  guests  arc  the  birds  and  the  wind, 
The  waves  before  and  the  cliff  behind, 
And  the  rocks  are  steep  and  hard  to  climb, 
So  none  will  intrude  on  our  breathing-time, 
And  all  to  ourselves  we  will  have  the  day, 
Beautiful  Casco  Bay  I 

Tired  of  the  town,  with  its  selfish  hearts, 
Its  vain  pretences  and  ill-played  parts, 
The  crush  of  streets  and  the  strife  of  marts, 
The  roll  of  coaches  and  rattle  of  carts, — 
And  stifled  beneath  a  worldly  crust, 
Deafened  with  noise  and  choked  with  dust, 
My  heart  is  a  bird  in  the  fowler's  trap, 
Or  a  butterfly  caught  in  a  schoolboy's  cap, — 
And  I  long  to  be  free,  as  I  am  to-day, 
Beautiful  Casco  Bay! 

Come,  tell  me  some  of  the  tales  you  know, 
The  ocean  legends  of  long  ago, — 
The  stories  told  by  in-coming  waves, 
Of  wrecking  tempests  and  foamy  graves, 
Of  booming  billows  and  shattered  ships, 
And  vain  prayers  strangled  on  ashy  lips;  — 
I.  'vc  heard  you  echo  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
With  a  mournful  wail  to  the  saddened  shore, 
Though  now  so  gladly  your  waters  play, 
Beautiful  Casco  Bay  I 

I  love  your  voice  as  I  hear  it  come 

Like  a  chorus  grand,  through  the  city's  hum, 

Thrilling  the  fine  electric  chain 

That  binds  me  to  Nature's  heart,  again  — 

That  heart  whose  current  flows  wide  and  far, 


THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Whose  ceaseless  throbbings  your  billows  are 

And  my  truant  soul  comes  back  to  me 
When  your  leafless  forest  of  masts  I  see, 
And  I  fling  my  handful  of  cares  away, 
Beautiful  Casco  Bay! 

Adieu!  I  go  —  and  beneath  the  roar 
Of  your  headlong  waves  on  the  rocky  shore, 
In  the  surf-tossed  sea-weed  and  broken  shells, 
I  hear  a  murmur  of  soft  farewells ;  — 
I  shall  love  you  still  with  a  worship  true, 
And  this  wide  bright  reach  of  tossing  blue, 
This  sparkling  plain,  where  the  gazer  sees 
The  snowy-white  sails  blossom  out  in  the  breeze, 
Will  live  in  my  heart  for  many  a  day, 
Beautiful  Casco  Bay  I 


XX. 

THE    MINCE   PIE. 

NOT  many  months  passed  before  the  mother  had 
an  excellent  opportunity  to  corroborate  her  opinion  as 
to  the  difficulties  which  are  so  apt  to  environ  the 
attempt  to  do  a  kind  action,  especially  when  the 
attempt  is  made  privately. 

"  Bob,"  she  whispered,  one  morning,  after  Brunette 
had  gone  out,  and  there  was  no  need  of  whispering, 
"  Bob,  let  's  you  and  me  go  out  quietly  to-night,  and 
carry  one  of  these  nice  mince  pies  to  poor  old  Mrs. 
Throckmorton.  She  told  me  that  on  Thanksgiving 
day,  she  had  nothing  to  eat  but  corn  meal,  and  I  dare 
say  she  has  n't  tasted  mince  pie  for  months." 

"But,  mother,  why  can't  I  just  carry  it  round  there 
to-day  ?  I  don't  know  where  she  lives,  but  I  believe 
it  is  in  one  of  those  little  lonesome  streets  running  out 
of  Brackett.  Any  way,  I  can  find  it." 

"  But  I  don't  want  anybody  to  know  it ;  I  don't 
want  even  her  to  know  where  it  comes  from,"  said  the 
mother,  who  never  added  her  name  to  public  subscrip 
tions,  and  had  a  fancy  for  doing  her  small  good  deeds 
secretly.  "  If  I  should  send  you  over  there  with  a  pie, 
it  would  be  all  up  and  down  the  street  before  to- 


213 


THE   TKIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

"  What,  the  pie  ?"  asked  Bob,  wonderingly. 
'And  somebody  would  say  that   a  mince  pie  was 
not  just  the  thing  to  give  a  woman  who  docs  n't  have 
bread  enough.     And  somebody  else  would  remark  that 
before  giving  mince  pies  to  troublesome  old  women, 
I  'd  better  buy  myself  a  new  dress,  or  my  little  boy  a 
new  jacket,"  said  she,  looking  at  a  nice   darn   on  his 
sleeve,  where  he  had  torn  it  on  a  nail  in   the  fence. 
"And  some  one  else  would  express  the  opinion  that 
as  long  as  my  daughter  goes  out   to  her  work  in  all 
sorts  of  weather,  it  does  n't  look  well  for  me  to  give 
away  mince  pies.     And  some  other  person  would  say 
that  I  was  trying  to  play  Lady  Bountiful,  by  way  of 
rebuke  to  my  neighbors.     And  another  person  would 
say  that  probably  poor  old  Mrs.  Throckmorton's  hope 
less  claim   against  the  city  had  been   allowed,  and  I 
was  trying  to  make  interest  with  her.     No,  my  son 
you  and  I  will  go  together  to-night  to  her  house,  as 
late  as  we  dare  go  out,  and  hurry  away  before  she 
recognizes  us." 

It  is  "sweet  and  proper"  to  invent  a  harmless 
plan  for  somebody's  pleasure,  but  the  two  conspirators 
found  that  it  was  not  easy  to  carry  out  even  a  harm 
less  pie.  Brunette  scented  a  plot  as  soon  as  she 
entered  the  house  that  evening,  and  asked  so  many 
leading  questions,  that  her  mother  was  obliged  to  tell 
her  that  Bob  and  herself  were  going  on  a  little  errand, 
a  statement  so  unusual  that  the  size  and  prominence' 
of  Brunette's  eyes  were  noticeably  increased  thereby, 
and  she  took  on  an  injured  air,  as  though  defrauded 


THE   MINCE    PIE.  215 

• 

of  her  inalienable  rights.  Then  callers  came  in  the 
evening,  and  stayed  later  than  usual.  Then  every 
basket  in  the  house  was  either  too  large  or  too  small 
to  carry  the  pie  in,  and  it  was  finally  wrapped  in  a 
napkin,  and  again  in  a  new  towel,  and  again  in  a 
newspaper,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  make  it  into  a  square 
parcel. 

"How  awfully  round  it  looks!"  said  the  mother, 
as  she  and  Bob  held  conclave  in  the  kitchen.  "  I 
should  know  that  for  a  mince  pie,  if  I  should  see  it  a 
mile  away.  But  it  's  just  as  well,"  she  sighed,  putting 
on  a  dark  wrap  that  covered  her  from  head  to  foot, 
"  it 's  precisely  as  well,  for  if  I  should  succeed  in  dis 
guising  it,  it  would  no  doubt  find  miraculous  voice,  as 
Balaam's  donkey  did,  and  proclaim  itself  aloud  to 
everybody  we  meet." 

"  Let 's  wait  till  the  next  neighbors  have  gone  to 
bed,"  said  Bob.  "  They  never  hear  our  door  shut  with 
out  running  to  look  through  the  blinds,  and  what 
would  they  say  to  see  us  going  out  so  late  ?  " 

The  mother  groaned.  "My  punishment  is  begun," 
said  she.  "  Do  look  and  see  if  their  light  is  out ;  they 
generally  go  to  bed  with  the  liens.  What  keeps  them 
up  so  late  ?  "  Finally,  she  could  wait  no  longer,  and 
they  started,  closing  the  street-door  noiselessly.  But 
the  vigilant  neighbor  heard  their  steps  in  the  stillness, 
and  immediately  appeared  between  her  curtain  and 
the  sash,  and  watched  the  suspected  parties  out  of 
sight. 

"  There ! "  said  the  mother,  "  we  have  forgotten  the 


216  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

latch-key,  and  I  don't  want  to  ring  the  bell  when  we 
come  back ;  it  will  raise  the  whole  street." 

"  You  walk  along  slowly,"  said  Bob,  "  and  I  '11  run 
back  and  get  it." 

So  the  mother  tried  to  walk  slowly,  but  she  dared 
not  go  far  from  the  place  where  Bob  left  her,  because 
her  way  led  round  a  near  corner,  and  Bob  would  lose 
her  if  she  kept  on  her  route.  Presently  a  man,  really 
or  pretcndedly  half-drunk,  slouched  near  her  and 
inquired  the  time  of  night.  She  hurried  round  the 
corner,  and,  concealed  by  the  increased  darkness, 
there  being  no  gas-lamp  near,  stood  watching  for  Bob's 
return.  Presently  she  perceived  on  the  other  corner, 
the  dim,  rigid  figure  of  a  policeman,  who  was  evi 
dently  watching  her  movements.  More  terrified  by 
him  than  by  the  other,  she  turned  and  hurried  toward 
the  distant  patter  of  Bob's  returning  feet,  met  him, 
and  the  two  presently  pursued  their  way.  It  had 
grown  every  moment  darker  and  cloudier,  and  they 
found  it  nearly  impossible  to  read  the  street-signs  at 
the  corners. 

'•  I  don't  know  this  neighborhood  at  all,"  said  the 
tired  mother.  "  It  is  one  of  these  short  streets,  but 
they  are  all  alike  dark  and  gruesome.  I  think  I  should 
know  the  house,  from  her  description."  Up  one 
street  and  down  the  next  they  went,  finding  no  house 
which  suited  the  mother's  idea  of  Mrs.  Throckmor- 
ton's.  "  Now  I  wish  that  officious  policeman  would 
appear,"  said  she,  "  and  we  could  inquire." 

The  gas-lights  in  these  unfrequented  streets  were 


THE  MINCE   PIE.  217 

few  and  dim.  While  the  wanderers  were  peering 
over  gates  and  trying  to  read  antiquated  door-plates, 
it  began  to  rain.  "  And  I  Ve  neither  rubbers  nor 
waterproof,  nor  umbrella,"  murmured  the  wearied 
woman,  **  and  you  '11  spoil  your  nice  new  boots,  Bob; 
it  's  too,  too  bad !  I  declare,"  said  she,  suddenly, 
'•  I  'm  going  to  take  the  elephant  by  the  tusks  and 
inquire !  "  and  she  rang  at  a  door  which  was  flush 
with  the  sidewalk,  a  door  over  which  three  panes 
showed  a  glimmer  of  turned-down  gas.  A  man  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  answered,  after  some  rustling  delay. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  if  Mrs.  Throckmorton  lives  near 
here?"  asked  the  mother,  bravely. 

"  Don't  know  any  such  person,"  was  the  gruff  reply, 
and  the  door  came  to  with  unnecessary  force. 

Presently,  as  they  plodded  silently  through  the  rain, 
the  mother  saw  a  house  that  she  said  might  be  the 
place.  A  faint  light  shone  from  a  side  window,  of  so 
dreary  and  lonesome  a  character,  that  instead  of  cheer 
ing  the  dripping  darkness  outside,  it  seemed  to  add  a 
new  suggestion  of  discomfort,  as  proving  that  some 
human  being  was  still  awake,  and  aware  of  the  gen 
eral  poverty  and  miserableness,  instead  of  having  for 
gotten  all  worries  in  merciful  slumber.  There  was  no 
uell-pull  at  this  door,  and  she  knocked.  No  answer. 
Another  knock.  A  shuffling  inside,  and  presently  a 
sound  of  whispered  consultation,  while  a  gaunt,  tall, 
starved-looking  dog  came  round  the  house  and  snuffed, 
with  a  blood-curdling  sound,  at  the  mother's  shrinking 


10 


218  THE   TEIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

garments.  Another  knock,  and  then  a  trembling 
voice  from  within,  "  Who  's  there  ?  " 

"  Does  Mrs.  Throckmorton  live  here  f "  asked  the 
mother,  in  a  tone  so  extremely  self-possessed  that  it 
startled  even  herself. 

"  It  's  a  woman !  "  said  a  loud  whisper,  which 
sounded  as  astonished  and  horrified  as  though  it  had 
said,  "  It  's  a  hippopotamus  !  " 

"No,  she  don't,  she  lives  down  the  street,  up  a  little 
ways,  a  house  or  two  to  the  right  after  you  turn  to 
the  left  with  a  porch  to  it !  "  was  the  not  very  per 
spicuous  reply. 

The  only  clear  idea  which  the  seekers  obtained  from 
this  direction,  was  that  the  house  they  sought  had  "  a 
porch  to  it,"  and  so  they  walked  along  the  sloppy 
bricks  with  an  eye  single  to  porches.  By  this  time 
most  houses,  porched  and  otherwise,  were  quite  black 
as  to  their  windows  ;  and  Bob  at  last  stood  still,  and 
said,  "  Mother,  let  's  give  it  up.  We  are  both  wet 
through ;  your  dress  is  draggled,  and  my  boots  are 
soaked  as  well  as  yours.  We  have  tried  hard  enough, 
let  's  give  it  up !  " 

"  Bob,"  said  his  mother,  wiping  her  rain-wet  face 
with  a  soppy  pocket-handkerchief,  "  I  Ve  heard  of  a 
tropical  city  that  is  paved  with  good  intentions.  I 
suppose,  —  I  hope,  it  means  those  good  intentions  which 
nobody  ever  tries  to  make  fruitful ;  the  good  inten 
tions  of  people  who  content  themselves  with  saying, 
*  Be  ye  warmed,'  and  'Be  ye  clothed,'  to  poor  unhappy 


THE   MINCE   PIE.  219 

find  needy  wretches,  without  making  the  least  effort 
to  help  or  comfort  them.  Now  we  have  really  tried 
to  do  something  more  than  say  to  Mrs.  Throckmorton, 
1  Be  fed  with  mince  pie,'  but  yet  we  have  failed  to  do 
her  any  good.  For  no  matter  how  small  the  gift  is, 
Bob,"  ("I  am  sure  it  's  a  big  enough  pie,"  said  Bob, 
parenthetically,)  "  the  knowledge  that  somebody  really 
cares  enough  for  the  forlorn  old  soul  to  take  this  little 
pains  for  her,  would  really  do  her  good.  Let  us  try 
once  or  twice  more  before  we  acknowledge  defeat. 
We  're  about  as  wet  as  we  can  be,  and  we  might  as 
well  wade  a  little  longer,  as  the  song  says.  Now 
here  's  a  tumble-down  tenement  with  what  was  once  a 
porch.  Let  's  attempt  this." 

She  knocked,  and  presently  a  voice  demanded, 
"  Who  's  there  ?  " 

"  Does  Mrs.  Throckmorton  live  here  ?  "  asked  Bob, 
in  his  manliest  voice. 

«  No  —  yes  —  that  is  —  who  's  there  ?  "  said  the 
insider.  "  Yes,  she  lives  here.  What  do  you  want? 
Who  is  it?". 

"  That  's  never  her  voice,"  whispered  the  mother. 
"  Xow  I  remember,  she  told  me  that  she  had  let  part 
of  her  house  to  some  troublesome  people  who  would 
not  pay  their  rent ;  and  she  said  that  whenever  they 
knew  she  had  any  provisions,  they  were  sure  to  be 
out  of  food  themselves,  and  so  she  never  dares  have 
anything  sent  home  when  she  is  away.  I  must  be 
sure  she  is  here." 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  again  demanded  the  inside  speaker. 


220  THE   TllIANGULAK   SOCIETY. 

Just  at  this  instant,  an  enormous  white  cat,  that 
had  been  sitting  on  the  porch  under  some  ragged 
vines,  unseen  by  the  two  pilgrims,  suddenly  sprang 
between  them,  and  hastily  scuttled  away  into  the  wet 
bushes  beside  the  house,  startling  Bob,  who  jumped 
as  though  electrified,  and  ejaculated,  "Christopher 
Columbus !  " 

"  Who  did  you  say  ?  "  asked  the  party  inside,  in  an 
astonished  tone. 

"  Only  some  friends,"  replied  the  mother,  sweetly. 
"  "Will  you  tell  Mrs.  Throckmorton  that  a  lady  wants 
to  see  her?" 

Hereupon  a  suppressed,  but  perfectly  audible  dia 
logue  ensued  between  two  very  candid  persons  within. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  's  a  lady,"  said  one,  "  they  did  n't 
say  so,  the  first  time.  Would  you  open  the  door  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  other,  "  it 's  nobody  for  any  good, 
this  time  o'  night." 

"  I  like  to  get  at  people's  real  opinions,"  whispered 
the  mother.  Then  she  asked  again,  ""Will  you  call 
Mrs.  Throckmorton  to  the  door  ?  Tell  her  a  friend 
is  waiting,  a  friend  who  has  brought  her  something." 

After  a  pause  the  reply  came.  "  She  is  n't  at  home, 
she  's  gone  to  meeting." 

"  To  meeting  at  eleven  o'clock ! "  muttered  Bob. 

"  But  if  you  've  got  anything  for  her,  you  can  put 
it  on  the  step,"  continued  the  invisible.  "  The  door 
has  got  itself  fastened  so  I  can't  open  it." 

"How  late  does  she  stay  at  meeting?"  asked  the 
mother,  who  had  no  idea  of  leaving  her  pie  on  the 


THE   MINCE   PIE.  221 

stop,   either   for   the   cat,   or  the    mendacious   party 
within. 

"O,  she  often  stays  all  night,"  was  the  response. 
"  But  if  you  have  anything  for  her,  just  leave  it  there, 
and  I  ']!  take  care  of  it." 

"  That  settles  it,"  said  the  mother.  "  We  can't 
wait  here  all  night ;  we  can't  get  the  pie  to  her  by 
leaving  it  on  the  step.  We  can't  do  anything  but 
sneak  home  to  Brunette,  and  tell  her  that  after  all  our 
plotting,  we  have  failed  miserably  in  trying  to  do  the 
forlorn  old  creature  a  little  wretched  two-cent  kind 
ness,  and  have  got  tired  out,  and  discouraged,  and 
draggled  for  our  pains !  " 

"  And  Brunette  will  laugh  us  all  to  shoe-strings," 
said  Bob,  mournfully,  "  and  say  it  's  a  righteous  judg 
ment  upon  us  for  not  telling  her  where  we  were  going. 
And  we  shall  have  to  eat  that  travelled  pie,  ourselves, 
after  all !  " 

"  I  wonder,"  said  the  mother,  half  to  herself,  cast 
ing  an  uneasy  glance  behind  her  as  she  hurried  along, 
her  wet  skirts  swishing  about  her  feet,  "  I  wonder  if 
policemen  keep  as  sharp  a  lookout  on  really  bad  and 
mischievous  persons,  as  they  do  on  harmless  and  well- 
meaning  souls  who  happen  accidentally  to  be  out 
later  than  usual  ?  If  they  do,  I  should  n't  suppose 
the  greatest  villains  in  the  world  would  ever  find  an 
opportunity  to  do  any  mischief,"  continued  she,  still 
hearing  the  thud,  thud,  thud,  of  the  guardian's  boots 
as  he  kept  along  at  a  little  distance  behind.  "  I 
remember,  when  we  lived  farther  down  town,  I  went 


222  THE  TBIANGTJLAK   SOCIETY. 

early  one  evening  to  see  a  friend  on  Danforth  street. 
The  time  slipped  away,  and  before  I  knew,  it  was 
eleven  o'clock.  She  did  not  invite  me  to  stay  all 
night;  the  cars  had  ceased  running;  I  must  walk  the 
whole  way  alone.  And  every  policeman  I  met,  eyed 
me  with  such  interest  and  suspicion  that  I  was  really 
terrified,  and  began  to  feel  as  though  I  were  really  a 
thief  or  a  burglar,  and  for  the  last  few  blocks,  I 
actually  ran  every  step.  Easy,  Bob,  with  the  latch 
key." 

Brunette,  who  had  been  asleep  on  the  lounge,  arose 
as  they  entered  the  sitting-room,  and  surveyed  their 
dripping  garments  with  stern  disapproval. 

"  It  strikes  me,"  said  she,  as  her  mother  humbly 
deposited  her  package  on  the  table,  "it  strikes  me 
that  you  are  a  couple  of  mince-pious  frauds." 

"I've  heard  of  casting  one's  bread  on  the  waters 
and  seeing  it  return,  after  many  days,"  said  Bob,  tug 
ging  at  his  sodden  boots,  "  but  we  've  got  our  pie 
back  the  same  night." 

"  I  am  half  inclined  to  think,"  said  the  mother,  next 
morning  at  the  breakfast-table,  with  a  look  as  though 
her  opinion  had  been  arrived  at  through  pondering 
when  she  should  have  been  sleeping,  "  I  am  almost 
convinced  that  the  reason  why  there  are  not  more 
good  deeds  done,  lies  not  in  the  hard-heartedness  of 
people,  not  in  their  real  positive  wickedness,  but  in 
their  indolence.  The  doing  of  a  good  deed,  even  a 
small  one,  is  generally  hedged  about  with  so  many 
difficulties,  that  the  unregenerate  heart  shrinks  from 


THE  MINCE  PIE.  223 

taking  the  trouble  to  overcome  them.  Bid  I  ever  tell 
you  how  hard  a  woman  friend  of  mine  tried  to  do  a 
kindness,  in  secret,  to  a  poor  woman  living  in  a  miser 
able  shelter  on  one  of  the  back  streets  ?  " 

"Did  she  go  out  in  a  drizzling  rain  to  carry  her 
pensioner  something  to  give  her  dyspepsia?"  asked 
Brunette. 

"  O  no,  her  plan  cost  more  than  that,"  said  the 
unruffled  mother.  "  She  knew  that  the  poor  woman 
had  a  hard  struggle  to  support  herself,  her  little  child, 
and  her  mother ;  that  they  were  poorly  housed,  poorly 
clad,  and  insufficiently  warmed.  So  she  planned  to 
send  them  secretly  a  ton  of  coal.  Of  course  this 
made  it  necessary  to  know  the  poor  woman's  exact 
address.  Of  course,  again,  if  •she  asked  the  woman 
herself,  it  would  betray  her  purpose.  So  she  spent 
half  a  day  hunting  through  the  miserable  neighbor 
hood  to  find  the  place.  Having  found  it,  she  went  to 
a  coal-dealer,  ordered  the  coal,  and  interviewed  the 
driver  who  was  to  deliver  it,  giving  him  careful 
instructions.  She  was  to  call  in  again  at  evening,  get 
his  report,  and  pay  the  bill,  as  she  was  determined  to 
be  sure  that  the  coal  reached  the  right  party.  So  at 
night  she  went  to  the  coal-yard  again. 

u  '  And  troth  I  did  n't  deliver  the  coal  ye  ordhered,' 
said  the  red-cheeked  driver,  '  for  faith,  whin  I  got 
there,  there  was  nowhere  to  dump  it  at  all,  at  all, 
savin'  the  kitchen  flure,  and  sure  there  was  n't  room 
foreninst  the  bed  and  the  ould  table.  What  can  the 


224  THE  TKIANGULAE   SOCIETY. 

likes  o'  them  do  with  a  ton  o'  coal  ?     They  get  it  at 
the  grocery  by  the  bucket-ful,  the  craythurs  ! ' 

"  So  my  friend  had  to  pay  the  driver  for  his  wasted 
time,  satisfy  the  coal-dealer  for  his  disappointment, 
and  pocket  her  own  as  well  as  she  could,  having,  after 
all  her  trouble,  failed  utterly  to  do  any  good." 


XXI. 

THE   TRAMP. 

"  MOTHEE,"  said  Brunette,  one  sunny  May  morn 
ing,  as  she  rose  from  the  breakfast-table,  "  there  's  a 
tramp  coming  up  the  walk.  Suppose  we  engage  him 
to  make  the  garden  ?  " 

"  No  objection  in  the  world,"  rejoined  her  mother, 
placidly  drinking  the  last  of  her  coffee.  "I  have 
already  engaged  thirteen  of  those  gentry  to  make  the 
garden.  It  's  the  surest  way  to  get  rid  of  them.  Not 
one  of  the  thirteen  will  ever  appear  here  again  until 
Christmas.  Engage  him,  by  all  means,  Brunette, 
but  don't  give  him  a  breakfast  to  bind  the  bargain." 

"  The  flower-beds  ought  to  be  made,"  put  in  Bob, 
anxiously.  "  Here  's  my  list  of  seeds  and  plants  all 
made  out,  and  —  " 

"  Where  's  Johnny  Dunn  ?  "  suddenly  exclaimed 
his  sister,  recollecting  herself,  "  that  good-looking  fel 
low  with  the  Irish-blue  eyes,  who  came  here  a  month 
ago,  and  got  his  breakfast  on  a  promise  to  come  and 
work  in  the  garden  'just  as  soon  as  the  ground  is  fit 
to  work,  Miss '  ?  "  And  Brunette  suddenly  burst  into 
singing,  to  the  air  of  "  County  Guy  "  —  "  That  April 
day  has  fled  away,  the  hours  to  weeks  have  run,  the 
skies  are  clear,  the  birds  are  here,  but  where  is  Johnny 
10*  225 


226  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Dunn?  The  neighbors  round,  to  till  their  ground, 
have  long  ago  begun,  't  is  time  to  hoe,  transplant  and 
sow,  but  where  is  Johnny  Dunn  ?  'T  is  time  to  make, 
with  spade  and  rake,  the  flower-beds,  every  one,  for 
everything  proclaims  the  spring,  O,  where  is  Johnny 
Dunn?" 

"  O  Brunette  !  "  exclaimed  Bob,  out  of  all  patience, 
"  do  stop !  I  believe  you  'd  fiddle  if  Rome  was 
burning !  Here  's  my  list  —  " 

"  I  doubt  if  anything  short  of  the  conflagration  of 
the  Eternal  City  will  ever  enable  me  to  fiddle," 
returned  his  sister,  4'  and  as  for  your  list,  is  it  like  that 
you  sent  to  a  florist  when  we  lived  down  south, 
wherein  yo'u  ordered  blue  tulips,  and  Mr.  Vick  sent 
you  his  own  photograph,  as  the  nearest  thing  he  could 
muster  to  anything  so  rare  and  unique  ?  " 

Bob  looked  foolish,  and  she  mercilessly  continued : 

"  And  what  about  the  manual  phlox,  and  the  arrow- 
fat  peas,  and  the  brainial  poppies,  and  the  high-bred 
roses,  and  the  purple  masters  with  yellow  middles, 
and  —  " 

"But  that  was  before  I  could  read  the  catalogue 
for  myself,"  said  poor  Bob,  half-crying,  "  and  I  heard 
you  say  you  meant  to  get  some  asters,  and  some 
annual  phlox,  and  some  marrow-fat  peas,  and  I 
thought  you  said  '  brainial,'  instead  of  perennial, 
and  —  " 

"  And  I  'm  sure  the  roses  are  high-bred  as  well  as 
hybrid,"  put  in  the  mother.  "  Bob's  mistake  was  not 
uncomplimentary  to  the  florist." 


THE   TRAMP.  227 

"  I  know  what  Brunette  will  say  next,"  said  Bob. 
"  She  will  ask  me  about  the  cock  zinnias  that  I  wanted 
you  to  send  for ;  but  how  was  I  to  know  that  '  coc- 
cinnea '  was  only  another  word  for  scarlet  ?  I  thought 
it  meant  a  large  kind  of  zinnias.  I  'm  sure  there  's 
cockscomb,  and  henbane,  and  chick-weed,  and  —  she 
was  to  blame,  herself,  for  setting  down  the  names  just 
as  I  said  'em,  when  she  knew  better.  She  is  always 
making  fun  of  me.  A  boy  don't  have  any  kind  of  a 
chance  in  this  family,"  he  grumbled,  focusing  the  sun 
shine  on  the  back  of  Brunette's  hand  with  his  glass. 
She  sprang  up,  exclaiming,  "  Why,  don't  you  know 
that  burns  like  a  live  coal  ?  I  actually  believe  you 
have  raised  a  blister  on  my  hand  !  " 

"Has  it  burned  you?"  asked  Bob,  innocently. 
"Perhaps  that 's  why  it  's  called  a  magnifire." 

Just  then  the  mother  returned  from  a  brief  trip  to 
the  door. 

"  It  's  the  very  tramp  who  excited  my  sympathies 
so  in  the  winter, "  she  said.  "  I  was  quite  pleased 
with  his  appearance,  then.  He  looked  like  a  mechanic, 
and  did  not  betray  any  signs  of  whiskey ;  he  had  a 
most  candid  address,  and  an  innocent  and  sorrowful 
pair  of  eyes.  He  spoke  in  a  civil  way,  using  much 
better  language  than  is  usual  with  tramps  —  said  he 
served  in  the  late  war,  and  he  had  evidently  been  in 
the  South.  He  had  just  lost  his  wife  and  baby  in 
Nova  Scotia,  and,  finding  the  place  there  so  lonesome, 
had  concluded  to  go  to  Pennsylvania,  where  he  heard 
he  could  get  work  ;  he  had  a  twin-brother  there,  who 


228  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

had  got  a  place  for  him.  I  gave  him  a  comfortable 
breakfast,  which  he  ate  thankfully,  philosophizing 
meanwhile  on  the  effects  of  slavery  on  the  South,  the 
difference  between  New  England  and  Tennessee  as 
places  of  residence,  and  lastly  discussing  the  question 
of  special  providences,  with  considerable  eloquence." 

"  Where  did  he  do  all  this  preaching  ? "  asked 
Brunette.  "  I  hope  you  did  n't  let  the  fellow  into  the 
house  ?  When  I  find  one  of  them  at  the  door,  I  just 
smile  at  him  with  all  my  might,  and  say,  '  No,  thank 
you,'  with  effusive  politeness,  and  as  a  rule,  they  are 
so  astonished,  that  they  turn  and  go  away,  «  without 
knowing  what  hurt  them,'  as  Bob  says.  But  I  should 
never  let  one  into  the  house.  He  would  probably 
prefer  entering  unannounced  at  the  cellar  window." 

"  Well,  I  gave  that  one  his  breakfast  in  the  kitchen," 
admitted  the  mother.  "  His  remarks  were  quite  edi 
fying,  and  he  went  away,  after  thanking  me  civilly, 
with  the  same  mournful  expression  in  his  eyes, 
speaking  a  life-long  sorrow,  and  an  air  of  integrity 
and  respectable  misfortune  enveloping  him  like  a 
garment." 

"That  was  because  he  made  a  habit  of  it,"  sug 
gested  Brunette,  grimly. 

"  Well,  he  actually  made  me  feel  as  though  I  had 
sometimes  been  unjust  to  tramps,  and  perhaps  sent 
away  more  than  one  angel  unaware.  But  alas  !  just 
now,  I  met  at  the  door  that  same  mournful  pair  of 
eyes.  This  time  their  owner  came  from  Philadelphia, 
where  he  had  just  lost  his  wife  and  baby ;  he  had 


THE   TEAMP.  229 

given  up  his  home  there  because  of  its  lonesorneness, 
and  was  trying  to  get  to  Nova  Scotia,  where  he  had  a 
twin-brother,  who  had  procured  a  situation  for  him !  " 

"There  's  no  truer  saying  than  that  a  liar  needs  a 
good  memory,"  observed  Brunette. 

"Yes,  it  surely  proved  true  here.  My  mournful- 
eyed  caller  had  apparently  forgotten  the  house  —  he 
either  had  a  very  short  memory,  or  supposed  I  had. 
I  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  It  was  clearly  impossi 
ble,  even  for  a  man  with  a  candid  expression  and  a 
mournful  pair  of  eyes,  to  have  achieved  —  and  dis 
posed  of  —  two  wives  and  two  babies  in  the  space  of 
three  months,  to  say  nothing  of  two  twin-brothers, 
one  in  Pennsylvania  and  one  in  Nova  Scotia.  I  shut 
the  door  without  a  word,  and  he  went  away,  with  an 
injured  and  innocent  air,  and  the  same  look  of  honest 
misfortune  and  unimpeachable  respectability  clinging 
to  him  like  a  garment." 

"You  arc  always  getting  imposed  upon  through 
your  soft-heartedness,"  said.  Brunette.  "  That  fellow 
is  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  now,  looking  some 
gullible  house-mother  in  the  face  with  those  mournful 
dark  eyes,  hurting  her  feelings  with  another  construct 
ive  wife  and  baby,  which  he  has  lost  lately  somewhere 
else,  and  flourishing  the  twin-brother  at  her  by  way  of 
clinching  his  argument  in  favor  of  her  giving  him  a 
substantial  breakfast.  And  what  is  more,  he  will 
probably  get  it,  too.  How  strange  it  is,  that  just  as 
long  as  one  holds  tight  to  self-respect,  principle,  and 
independence,  this  world  goes  so  hard  with  one ;  but 


230  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

just  as  soon  as  one  lets  go  all  those  precious  things, 
one  may  be  fed  and  clothed  for  nothing,  and  have  no 
end  of  leisure  and  freedom!  I  wonder  how  many 
times  that  fellow  has  lost  his  wife  and  baby,  left  the 
scene  of  his  lost  happiness  with  a  broken  heart,  and 
hastened  to  the  solace  of  fraternal  assistance  and  sym 
pathy,  since  last  February  ?  " 

"Tramps  do  worse  things  than  that,"  said  Bob. 
"  Last  week  a  tramp  killed  a  woman  on  Brackett 
street,  after  she  had  just  given  him  some  breakfast, 
too." 

"  Killed  a  woman  !  why  was  n't  it  in  the  papers  ?  " 
queried  the  horrified  mother.  "  I  have  n't  heard  of 
any  such  tragedy.  Who  told  you  ?  " 

"Anyway,  he  broke  her  spine,"  said  unterrified 
Bob,  "and  I  heard  Mrs.  Brown  telling  one  of  the 
neighbors  about  it." 

O 

"  But  did  Mrs  Brown  really  say  that  a  tramp  had 
broken  anybody's  spine  ?  " 

"I  '11  tefl  you  just  as  near  as  I  can,  word  after 
word,"  said  Bob,  a  little  red  in  the  face.  "Mrs. 
Brown  said  that  a  friend  of  hers,  on  Brackett  street, 
engaged  a  ill-looking  tramp  to  dig  her  pansy  bed. 
She  gave  him  his  breakfast,  and  he  was  to  work  two 
full  hours.  Mrs.  Brown  said  he  made  the  woman  a 
solemn  promise ;  and  then  the  minute  she  turned  her 
back,  he  broke  it,  so  there  now  ! " 


XXII. 

THE   SIXTH    TRIANGULAR. 

"SPEAKING  of  mice,"  said  Brunette,  at  the  next 
Triangular,  "  since  our  failure  with  the  trap,  they  have 
been  running  in  my  head  so  —  " 

"  Perhaps  we  did  n't  set  the  trap  in  the  right  place," 
said  Bob,  rather  softly,  with  an  extremely  wise  smile. 

"  Don't  be  severe,  Bob,"  she  replied,  "  and  you  may 
read  first,  this  time.  I  suppose  you  have  looked  up 
your  selections  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  what  about  the  mice,  first  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  the  mice  will  come  later,"  said  Brunette. 

"  Doubtless,"  replied  Bob.  "  And  now  I  am  going 
to  read  a  riddle,  and  see  if  you  can  guess  it.  It  took 
me  an  hour  to  study  it  out,  and  I  should  n't  have 
thought  of  it  at  all,  if  I  had  n't  taken  a  turn  in  the 
flower-garden." 

"  Two  beds  of  annuals  and  a  sweet-pea  trellis  made 
out  of  the  wires  of  an  old  hoop-skirt  that  has  out 
lived  its  usefulness,"  commented  Brunette,  "  and  now 
for  the  riddle." 

"  I  think,"  said  Bob,  "  it  sounds  larger  to  call  it 

'A   REBUS.'" 
My  first  soars  gladly  from  the  earth, 

On  dawning's  dewy  wings. 
Viewing  the  morning's  beamy  birth, 
The  star's  last  glimmerings. 
231 


THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

One  of  the  few  who  sing  for  joy, 

And  are  not  taught  by  pain, 
My  first  permits  no  sad  alloy, 

To  mingle  with  his  strain. 

A  horseman  dashes  o'er  the  plain, 

With  mad  and  headlong  speed;  — 
With  nostrils  spread,  and  flying  mane, 

Sweeps  on  the  noble  steed; 
As  flies  the  tempest  in  its  might, 

As  meteors  cleave  the  sky;  — 
My  second  prompts  .his  foaming  flight, 

And  fires  his  flashing  eye. 

My  whole  lay  trembling  on  my  breast, 
When  summer's  morn  was  bright, 

But  ere  the  sunset  charmed  the  west, 
The  blue  eyes  lost  their  light. 

I  yielded  it  with  fond  regret,   , 
Ere  I  had  loved  it  lono-  — 

& 

But  ah,  its  spirit  lingers  yet, 
In  poet's  sweetest  song! 

"  I  never  should  have  guessed  it  if  you  had  n't 
spoken  of  the  flower-garden,"  said  Brunette,  "  but  the 
first  thing  I  thought  of  was  that  great  clump  of  blue 
larkspur." 

"Of  course  that  's  it,"  said  Bob.  "I  ought  not  to 
have  reminded  you  of  the  garden.  But  to  return  to 
our  mice."  Whereupon  Brunette  read  as  follows  : 

HAUNTED    HOUSES. 
All  houses  wherein  rats  and  mice  abide 

Are  haunted  houses.     Through  the  open  doors 
The  cunning  thieves  upon  their  errands  glide, 

Making  a  hasty  scratching  on  the  floors. 


THE   SIXTH   TRIANGULAR.  233 

We  meet  them  in  the  chamber,  on  the  stair, 
Along  the  passages  they  come  and  go ; 

Their  twinkling  eyes  are  peering  everywhere, 
As  hurriedly  they  scamper  to  and  fro. 

The  house  has  far  more  inmates  than  the  hosts 

Invited;  cellar,  pantry,  kitchen,  hall, 
Are  thronged  with  nibblers,  which  the  scent  of  roasts 

Has  tempted  from  their  strongholds  in  the  wall. 

The  stranger  at  my  fireside  may  not  see 
The  forms  I  see  —  and  if  strange  sounds  he  hear, 

Ascribes  them  to  the  wind  —  but  unto  me 
The  real  cause  is  visible  and  clear. 

Among  the  cupboard's  spoons  and  cruet-stands, 
They  keep  the  revels  which  the  housewife  hates  — 

From  holes  unnoticed  swarm  in  thievish  bands, 
And  hold  high  jinks  with  teacups,  bowls  and  plates. 

The  garret's  dusty,  dim  circumference 
Is  where  they  most  do  congregate  — •  for  there 

Kubbish  in  piles,  and  cobwebs  dark  and  dense 
Shut  out  intruders  and  the  daylight's  glare. 

Their  little  lives  are  kept  in  equipoise 

By  opposite  incentives  and  desires  — 
The  struggle  of  the  daring  that  destroys, 

And  the  instinctive  cowardice  that  fears. 

The  perturbations,  the  perpetual  jar 

Of  scampering  rodents,  bent  on  robbery, 

Come  from  the  attic,  where  by  moon  and  star, 
They,  undiscovered,  plan  it  secretly  ; 


234  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

And  as  the  moon,  from  some  dark,  cavernous  cloud, 
Flings  down  to  us  a  floating  bridge  of  light, 

Across  whose  trembling  beams  our  fancies  crowd, 
Into  the  vague  uncertainty  and  night  — 

So,  from  the  attic  story,  there  descends 
A  flight  of  stairs,  connecting  it  with  this, 

And  racing  up  and  down,  my  long-tailed  friends 
Affright  the  night  with  antics  numberless. 

"  That  's  very  well  for  the  mice,"  said  Bob.  "  Per 
haps  if  you  leave  it  in  the  pantry,  they  will  accept  it 
as  a  notice  to  quit.  But  it  seems  to  me  I  have  seen  it 
somewhere  before." 

u  Brunette,"  said  the  mother,  putting  on  her  eye 
glasses  in  order  to  add  severity  to  the  gaze  which  she 
bent  on  her  daughter,  "  Brunette,  I  'm  afraid  that  's  a 
parody ;  and  parodies  are  forbidden  by  the  by-laws  of 
our  Society.  The  sacrilege  of  parodying  the  verse  of 
a  great  and  good  poet,  ought  to  be  considered  an 
indictable  offence." 

"I  thought  the  glory  of  our  Society  was  that  it  had 
no  constitution  and  by-laws,"  said  Brunette. 

"  I  think  it  has  a  pretty  good  constitution,  or  it 
could  n't  have  endured "  —  the  mother  checked  her 
self,  with  a  little  gulp  —  "I  mean  that  every  self- 
respecting  literary  society  has,  or  ought  to  have,  an 
unwritten  law  against  parodies.  In  the  first  place,  a 
parody  generally  makes  light  of  something  that  is 
widely  known,  and  held  precious  and  sacred  by  many 


THE   SIXTH   TRIANGULAR.  235 

persons.  In  the  next  place,  if  it  is  any  way  well 
done,  it  at  once  associates  itself  with  the  original,  and 
can  never  thereafter  be  dissociated  from  it.  I  have 
heard  some  parodies  on  old  hymns  —  (parodies  made 
years  ago,  in  your  great-grandfather's  time,  when 
people  were  so  much  better,  and  more  respectful  to 
sacred  things  than  they  are  now) — which  I  find  it 
impossible  to  forget,  and  which  are  sure  to  come  into 
my  head  if  I  hear  one  of  the  originals  read  in  church, 
and  make  it  very  hard  for  me  to  preserve  decorum." 

"And  because  some  irreverent  persons  are  wicked 
enough  to  want  to  laugh  in  meeting,  there  must  be  no 
more  cakes  and  ale  ?  "  queried  unconvinced  Brunette. 

"  Because,"  said  the  mother,  laughing,  but  still  in 
earnest,  "because  after  I  have  brought  myself  into 
a  Sunday  frame  of  mind,  befitting  the  time  and  place, 
and  am  waiting  to  be  soothed  and  refreshed  by  the 
music  of  the  choir,  I  don't  want  their  first  words  to 
remind  me  of 

'  The  hill  of  Zion  yields 

A  thousand  striped  snakes  — ' 

or,  as  happened  a  Sunday  or  two  ago,  to  suggest 
irresistibly, 

4  Bless  the  oxen  Buck  and  Bright, 

And  all  the  little  steers; 
I  hope  they  '11  live  to  haul  ships'  masts 
These  hundred  thousand  years.'  " 

"  Then  we  '11  consider  that  our  Society  has  one  by 
law,"  said  Brunette.  "  And  now  we  '11  hear  you  read. 
No  parodies,  mind !  " 


236  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

"Here  is  something,"  said  the  mother,  turning  a 
few  leaves,  "  which,  although  not  exactly  local,  yet 
alludes  to  a  well-known  citizen  of  the  State.  The 
newspaper  from  which  I  took  it,  says  it  means  'a 
gallant  ex-governor  of  Maine,  who  was  wounded  in 
the  Battle  of  the  Wilderness,  and  lay  in  hospital  many 
weary  months.'  It  was  evidently  written  some  time 
ago." 

"  So  was  the  Iliad."  murmured  Brunette.  But  her 
mother  did  not  hear,  as  she  had  begun  reading. 

WOUNDED. 

June's  loving  presence  fills  these  green-arched  glooms ; 
From  broad-leaved  branches,  drooping  cool  and  low, 
Drop  clown  the  purple-veined  catalpa-blooms, 
Chasing  each  other  lightly  to  and  fro, 
As  dainty  as  new  snow. 

The  great  ripe  roses  nodding  by  the  way, 
Drunken  and  drowsy  with  their  own  perfume, 

Heed  not  that  bee  and  butterfly  all  day 
Make  in  their  very  hearts  a  banquet-room, 
And  rob  their  royal  bloom. 

The  chestnut  lights  her  mimic  chandeliers, 

The  tulip-tree  uplifts  her  goblets  high, 
The  pine  and  fir  shed  balmy  incense-tears, 

And  the  magnolia's  thick  white  petals  lie 
Expiring  fragrantly. 

The  silver  poplar's  pearl-and-emerald  sheen 
Glimmers  incessant,  shadowing  the  eaves; 

The  willow's  wide,  fair  fountain-fall  of  green 
Whispers  like  rain ;  a  pulse  of  gladness  heaves 
The  world  of  waving  leaves. 


THE  SIXTH  TKI  ANGULAR.  237 

In  yonder  room  that  fronts  the  dusty  street, 
Hushed  and  white-bedded,  curtained  cool  and  dim, 

There  lies  as  brave  a  heart  as  ever  beat, 
Bound  down  and  tortured  by  a  shattered  limb  — 
Ah !  what  is  June  to  him  ? 

To  him,  poor  homesick  sufferer,  how  fair 
Would  be  this  wealth  of  bloom,  this  sunny  sky, 

These  gushing  sparrow-songs,  this  gracious  air  I 
Yet  he,  with  stronger  right  to  all  than  I, 
Pines  in  captivity. 

With  breath  of  cannon  hot  upon  his  brow, 
In  glorious  strife  it  had  been  sweet  to  die ; 

But  no  ennobling  purpose  fires  him  now; 
His  soul  is  nerved  by  no  proud  battle-cry 
To  this  long  agony. 

What  was  the  boldest  charge,  the  bloodiest  fight, 

The  wildest  rally  over  heaps  of  slain, 
To  this  unequal  contest,  day  and  night, 

With  the  fierce  legions  of  disease  and  pain, 
Repulsed  so  oft  in  vain  ? 

Heroic  was  the  bravery  that  inspired 

His  heart  to  daring  deeds;  but  nobler  still 

This  bravery  of  strong  patience,  which,  untired, 
Waits  calmly,  while  the  tedious  months  fulfil 
Their  work  of  good  or  ill. 

Sacred  we  hold  their  names,  who  in  the  strife 
Of  righteous  war  —  our  nation's  noblest  sons  — 

Have  done  their  work  and  given  up  their  life 
Amid  the  smoke  and  thunder  of  the  guns, 
Beloved  and  honored  ones ! 


238  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

And  thou,  brave  heart,  although  no  trumpet  breath 
Proclaims  thee  martyr,  yet  thy  name  shall  be 

Hallowed  as  these ;  for  even  more  than  death 
O  hero,  hast  thou  suffered  patiently 
For  right  and  liberty! 

"What  became  of  him?  Say,  did  he  die?"  asked 
Bob,  with  dilated  eyes,  as  his  mother  finished  reading. 

"Die?  no  indeed,"  replied  Brunette;  "didn't  she 
tell  you,  before  she  began  it,  that  in  spite  of  the 
verses,  he  lived  to  be  governor  of  Maine  ?  " 

"  No,  she  did  n't,  she  never  said  any  such  thing," 
said  Bob,  with  spirit.  "  And  I  like  the  poem  very 
well,  and  I  only  hope  yours  will  be  half  as  good." 

"Very  well,"  said  Brunette,  "here  is  one.  which  I 
either  wrote  or  picked  up,  some  time  since.  Of  course 
you  can  both  readily  tell  whether  it  is  mine." 

A   DEMOLISHED    HOMESTEAD. 

We  rail  at  Time  for  spoiling  what  we  prize, 
But  mild  and  gradual  is  his  strong  control; 

His  rudest  touch  but  charms  and  sanctifies, 
His  changes  bring  no  shock  to  sense  or  soul. 

Seldom  by  Time  are  razed  the  sacred  shrines 
Of  local  love  and  neighborhood  renown; 

Improvement  blasts  them  with  her  new  designs, 
And  Traffic's  grasping  talons  dig  them  clown. 

Fond,  faithful  hearts  which  will  not  understand 
The  change  that  wounds  and  wrongs  their  constant 
truth, 

Grieve  that  to-day,  with  sacrilegious  hand, 
Removes  the  ancient  landmarks  of  their  youth. 


THE   SIXTH   TRIANGULAR.  239 

By  Trade  and  Greed  our  idols  are  displaced; 

Not  one  is  safe  from  their  destructive  clutch; 
Rudely  they  lay  our  pleasant  places  waste, 

Blighting  all  beauty  with  their  fatal  touch. 

Where  once  were  murmuring  depths  of  waving  leaves, 
A  mossy  roof,  and  household  love  and  mirth, 

The  cable  creaks,  the  derrick  groans  and  heaves, 
The  pick-axe  quarrels  with  the  unwilling  earth: 

They  ruin  and  uproot  all  olden  grace, 

All  precious  memories  which  our  youth  has  known, 
Old  homes,  old  trees  —  and  give  us  in  their  place 

Huge  heaps  of  rectilinear  brick  and  stone. 

Surely  the  dim  and  unregarded  ghosts 
Of  those  who  used  these  pleasant  shades  to  range, 

Come  up  at  night  out  of  their  misty  coasts, 
And  wring  their  spectral  hands  above  the  change! 

"  I  know  what  that  means,"  exclaimed  Bob,  before 
his  mother  could  speak.  "  It  's  that  old  house  near 
the  First  Parish  church,  a  pleasant  old  place,  with 
trees  about  it.  But  they  have  n't  pulled  it  down, 
after  all,  they  've  only  drawn  it  back  and  made  a  board 
ing-house  of  it." 

"  So  much  the  worse,"  said  the  mother.  "  Desecra 
tion  is  worse  than  destruction,  it  seems  to  me.  And 
yet,  mournful  as  it  is,  the  turning  of  an  old  homestead 
into  a  boarding-house  hardly  commends  itself  as  a 
subject  for  a  poem.  But  Bob,  you  are  not  doing  your 
share." 


240  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Thus  reminded,  Bob  read  gravely,  as  follows : 

HER   ANSWER. 

"  I  think  I  have  heard  you  rightly, 

And  this  way  the  matter  stands ; 
You  aim  to  become  my  master, 

As  you  are  of  your  gold  and  lands  — 
You  wish  me  to  fawn  and  follow, 
And  serve  you  with  fettered  hands  — 

"  To  flaunt  in  your  flimsy  finery, 
To  starve  in  your  hollow  state  — 

To  enter  a  life  of  falsehood 

Through  a  false  and  lying  gate  — 

To  dwarf  my  heart  for  diamonds, 
And  peril  my  soul  for  plate. 

"  A  modest  and  generous  offer, 
Which  only  a  man  could  make ! 

So  this  is  the  burden  of  duties 
You  wish  me  to  stoop  and  take  ? 

Nor  fear  that  my  strength  might  falter, 
Nor  dread  that  my  heart  might  break  ? 

"  Your  wife!  it  were  too  much  honor! 

Pray,  what  is  your  wife  to  be  ? 
The  slave  of  your  whim  and  bounty, 

The  pet  of  your  luxury  — 
A  careful,  obsequious  servant  — 

Is  the  picture  at  all  like  me  ? 

"  I  know  how  you  reckoned  your  chances  — 

Your  wooing  has  shown  me  that  — 
'  She  is  poor  —  I  will  make  her  wealthy '  — 

Oh,  joy  to  be  wondered  at! 
But  you  are  a  monstrous  camel, 
While  poverty  's  only  a  gnat! 


THE   SIXTH   TRIANGULAR.  241 

"  If  women  are  only  insects  — 

Poor,  insignificant  things, — 
I  am  not  a  cricket,  that  always 

By  the  fire-place  sits  and  sings, 
But  a  chrysalis,  unexpanded, 
Impatient  for  promised  wings. 

"  There  are  various  minor  trifles 
"Not  even  your  gold  can  gain  — 

You  cannot  imprison  the  sunlight, 
You  cannot  compel  the  rain  — 

And  I  am  more  wilful  than  either — 
You  flatter  and  sue  in  vain ! 

"  Away  with  your  gilded  fetters  — 
They  rattle,  although  they  shine  — 

The  goblet  of  bliss  you  offer, 

Smacks  strongly  of  poisoned  wine ; 

Your  ring  is  too  small  for  my  finger, 
Your  life  is  too  narrow  for  mine!  " 

Brunette  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Bob's  selections 
are  a  standing  marvel  to  me,"  said  she.  "  Somehow 
ho  reminds  me  of  a  calf,  who  leaves  the  trough  of 
milk  which  is  his  natural  diet,  to  munch  dusty  hay 
with  the  oxen." 

"  I  like  the  measure,"  said  Bob,  "  and  I  don't  care 
if  you  do  compare  me  to  a  calf." 

"  It  seems  to  me."  said  the  mother,  "  that  that  must 
have  been  written  by  a  young  person  who  held  a  posi 
tion  in  a  newspaper  office,  and  did  n't  care  to  exchange 
it  for  housework.  And  after  I  read  this  solemn  bit  of 
verse,  Brunette,  that  I  found  in  an  old  newspaper, 
11 


242  THE   TEIANGULAB   SOCIETY. 

we  '11  hear  a  prose  article,  if  you  please,  and  then  it 
will  be  tune  to  adjourn." 

HE   CAME   TOO   LATE. 
He  came  too  late !    The  toast  had  dried 

Before  the  fire  too  long, — 
The  cakes  were  scorched  upon  the  side, 

And  everything  was  wrong. 
She  scorned  to  wait  till  dark  for  one 

Who  lingered  on  his  way , 
And  so  she  took  her  tea  alone, 

And  cleared  the  things  away. 

He  came  too  late !    At  once  he  felt 

The  supper  hour  was  o'er;  — 
Indifference  in  her  calm  smile  dwelt  — 

She  closed  the  cupboard  door! 
The  table-cloth  was  put  away, 

No  dishes  could  he  see ;  — 
She  met  him  and  her  words  were  gay, 

She  never  spoke  of  tea! 

He  came  too  late  !  the  subtle  cords 

Of  patience  were  unbound, — 
'Not  by  offence  of  spoken  words, 

But  by  the  slights  that  wound. 
She  knew  he  could  say  nothing  now 

That  could  the  past  repay,  — 
She  bade  him  go  and  milk  the  cow, 

And  coldly  turned  away ! 

He  came  too  late!     The  fragrant  steam 

Of  tea  had  long  since  flown, 
The  flies  had  fallen  in  the  cream, 

The  bread  was  cold  as  stone. 


THE   SIXTH  TRIANGULAR.  243 

And  when  with  word  and  smile  he  tried 

His  hungry  state  to  prove, 
She  nerved  her  heart  with  woman's  pride, 

And  never  deined  to  move  ! 


Brunette  had  been  with  difficulty  restraining  her 
laughter  while  her  mother  read,  and  as  soon  as  the 
lines  were  finished,  she  burst  into  a  merry  peal. 

"  I  thought  it  was  droll  a  little,"  said  the  mother, 
"  but  it  does  n't  seem  so  funny  as  all  that." 

"  Mother,  don't  you  know  that  's  a  parody  ?  "  said 
exultant  Brunette,  "  and  that  you  've  broken  your  own 
precious,  solitary  by-law?  Miss  Bogart's  ghost  will 
haunt  you  for  countenancing  such  a  travesty  on  her 
sentimcntalism." 

"  Well,"  said  the  mother,  after  a  pause,  "  all  I  can 
do  is  to  move  an  amendment  of  that  by-law.  Sup 
pose  we  insert  the  words  '  consciously  and  voluntarily' 
somewhere  in  it  ?  And  now  for  your  prose." 

SOLEMN   NEW   ENGLAND. 

SOME   SMALL  ARGUMENTS   AGAINST  A   POPULAR   FALLACY. 

The  traditional  gravity  and  severity  of  New  England 
character  has  often  been  remarked,  and  frequently  set 
down  in  histories  and  biographies.  But  if  New  Eng- 
landers  are  habitually  grave,  it  is  certainly  not  because 
there  are  not  a  great  many  funny  persons  among  them, 
and  a  great  many  droll  circumstances  continually  occur 
ring  within  their  territory  and  observation.  A  careful 
collection  of  the  odd  incidents  actually  set  down,  with 
all  gravity,  as  facts,  in  the  newspapers  of  the  six  eastern 


244  THE  TBIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Stales,  would  be  much  funnier  than  any  "  funny  column  " 
extant ;  and  probably  the  only  reason  why  these  things 
are  not  utilized  in  this  way  by  overworked  humorists,  is 
simply  that  the  popular  -taste  clamors  for  falsehood 
instead  of  for  truth  ;  for,  of  course,  all  the  droll  local 
items  so  seriously  recorded  in  the  rural  papers  are  true. 

The  gravity  with  which  these  stones  are  told,  is  per 
haps  one  element  of  their  funniness.  A  New  Hampshire 
paper  soberly  announces  that  a  wood-snake  was  dis 
lodged  from  the  stomach  of  a  man  in  Rochester,  in  that 
State,  a  few  days  since.  It  is  supposed  to  have  been 
swallowed  twenty-five  years  ago.  The  idea  that  a  wood- 
snake,  born  under  a  cold  rock  in  the  forest,  and  dwelling 
all  its  life  in  chilly,  damp  shadows,  and  under  wet  leaves, 
could  live  for  an  hour  in  the  unnatural  heat  and  restraint 
of  a  human  stomach,  is  past  belief.  But  that  it  could 
not  only  do  this,  but  actually  keep  alive  years  longer  than 
it  would  naturally  do  in  its  native  wilds,  is  very  funny. 
But  of  course  it  is  true. 

The'next  funny  thing  happened  in  New  Bedford,  and 
had  to  do  with  a  funeral.  It  is  a  fact  that  some  'of  the 
drollest  things  in  the  world  happen  in  connection  with 
funerals,  and  kindred  sorrowful  occurrences.  And  when 
at  the  time,  some  unhappy  person,  perhaps  a  mourner, 
but  still  unable  to  remain  blind  and  deaf  to  the  ridicu 
lous,  happens  to  laugh  at  them,  it  is  counted  as  either 
shockingly  heartless,  or  clearly  hysterical.  At  this  New 
Bedford  funeral,  a  local  paper  says,  the  bearers  took  one 
carriage,  and  some  acquaintances  of  the  bereaved  family 
filled  the  only  other  carriage.  None  of  the  occupants 
would  budge  to  make  room  for  the  only  mourner,  the 
lonesome  woman  who  had  been  left  a  widow  by  the  man 
in  the  coffin,  and  so  the  procession  started  off,  leaving 


THE   SIXTH  TEIANGULAR.  245 

her  behind.  Now  is  not  this  the  most  melancholy-funny 
thing  that  could  have  happened?  Leaving  the  corpse 
behind,  as  has  been  done  before  now,  if  veracious 
reporters  can  be  trusted,  is  not  droller.  Fancy  the  feel 
ings  of  the  solitary  mourner,  left  standing  on  the  door 
steps,  while  the  procession  went  away  without  her  I  Of 
course  she  laughed — -decorously,  behind  her  handker 
chief,  and  concealed  it  by  coughing.  Doubtless  the  dead 
man  himself  smiled,  if  he  had  any  appreciation  of  the 
humorous  ;  perhaps  he  even  laughed  in  his  coffin,  as  his 
widow  coughed  in  her  laughing. 

The  next  droll  occurrence  is  also  of  a  funereal  charac 
ter  ;  it  happened  in  New  Hampshire.  Lots  of  droll 
things  happen  in  New  Hampshire.  A  late  resident  of 
Bristol  was  being  mournfully  lowered  into  his  long  home, 
when  it  was  found  to  be  not  long  enough  for  him.  "  The 
grave,"  it  has  been  eloquently  said,  "  conceals  all  short 
comings."  But  this  grave  revealed  them,  and  stood 
itself  convicted.  The  fact  was  pathetic  enough.  These 
are  hard  times,  and  people  must  economize  in  nearly 
everything;  but  when  a  man  has  been  pinched  and 
worried  and  compressed  and  crowded  through  his  allotted 
term  on  earth,  it  does  seem  as  though  he  ought,  at  last, 
to  have  a  big  enough  hole  in  the  ground.  But  this  poor 
soul's  last  bedroom  had  been  made  so  small  that  the 
casket  had  to  be  taken  out  for  the  purpose  of  remedying 
the  defect.  While  it  was  being  moved  from  the  grave,  a 
portion  of  the  earth  caved  in,  causing  one  of  the  bearers 
to  fall  into  the  grave,  and  the  other  three,  being  unable 
to  sustain  the  whole  weight,  fell  in  too,  and  the  coffin 
tumblecj  on  the  lot  of  them,  and  bruised  them  black  anfl. 
blue;  the  only  instance  on  record,  perhaps,  wherein  one 
dead  man  has  managed  to  get  the  better  of  four  living 


246  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

ones,  and  he  cabined,  cribbed,  confined,  coffined,  and 
laboring  under  every  disadvantage  of  position  and  popular 
prejudice,  which  last  always  goes  against  the  chances 
of  a  dead  man  in  any  contest. 

A  Concord  paper  recently  announced,  with  all  the  dig 
nity  of  a  full-face  heading,  that  "  Mr.  Blank's  favorite  cat 
fell  from  a  third-story  window  to  the  sidewalk,  this  fore 
noon,  and  was  killed.''  Around  this  statement  clings 
not  only  the  sorrowful  interest  attaching  to  all  fatal  acci 
dents,  but  all  the  novelty  of  a  new  departure  in  natural 
history.  Has  it  not  always  been  proverbial  that  a  cat, 
falling  from  any  height,  will  invariably  alight  on  its  feet  ? 
Have  not  wicked  boys,  without  the  fear  of  Mr.  Bergh 
or  his  disciples  before  their  eyes,  more  than  once  tried 
the  experiment  of  dropping  a  defenceless  pussy  from  a 
high  window,  or  from  the  great  beams  of  the  barn,  just 
to  see  how  surely  and  inevitably  she  would  alight  right 
side  up,  or  more  properly  right  side  down  ;  at  any  rate 
with  her  feet  down,  and,  naturally  enough,  under  the 
outrageous  provocation,  with  her  back  up  ?  Again,  there 
are  few  falls  without  assistance  or  provocation.  Even 
Eve  was  pushed;  and  Adam  has  been  whining  self- 
extenuating  excuses  for  his  tumble,  from  that  day  to 
this.  Few  human  beings  fall  without  being  shoved  by 
something;  cats  never.  Are  we  to  believe  that  New 
Hampshire  cats  are  falling  away  from  the  traditions  of 
their  forefathers  ?  If  so,  even  Darwin  could  not  lay  the 
blame  to  natural  selection,  for  surely  no  cat  would  natu 
rally  be  so  foolish  as  to  select  for  amusement,  a  fatal 
flight  from  a  third-story  window.  Under  the  circum- 
^tances,  the  great  naturalist  would  perhaps  be  justified 
in  calling  it  a  case  of  reversion. 

A  resident  of  Hopkinton,  New  Hampshire,  again,  was 


THE   SIXTH   TRIANGULAR.  247 

irked  by  the  sight  of  a  big  stone  near  his  residence. 
It  was  too  big  to  be  hauled  away  ;  it  could  not  be  burned  ; 
he  could  not  sell  it,  because  in  that  State,  the  demand  for 
boulders  is  not  brisk,  the  supply  being  still  largely  in 
advance  of  the  demand.  So  he  bethought  him  to  bury 
it ;  as  though  the  earth  in  that  locality  were  not  already 
sufficiently  hard-hearted.  Ingenious  man!  He  dug  a 
big  hole,  and  argued  with  the  rock  by  means  of  ropes 
and  chains,  and  the  muscle  of  grangers  and  oxen,  and 
perhaps  hydraulic  rams,  to  induce  it  to  fall  in  with  his 
plans. 

But  the  rock  did  not  want  to  be  planted  ;  it  knew  it 
would  never  come  up.  And  when  its  enemy  insisted, 
with  renewed  ropes  and  fresh  chains  and  augmented 
grangers  and  additional  oxen  and  more  and  higher 
draulic  rams,  and  the  rock  found  that  its  time  had  come 
to  go  under,  it  determined,  like  Samson,  to  carry  its 
enemy  with  it.  It  not  only  fell  in  with  his  arrange 
ments,  but  with  him.  And  the  chronicler  adds,  with  a 
circumstantiality  only  equalled  by  his  pathos,  "He  had  to 
be  dug  out," — an  expression  which  somehow  intimates 
that  his  friends  thought  it  was  more  than  he  was  worth. 
Now  that  he  knows  how  unpleasant  it  is  to  lie  not  only 
"  in  cold  obstruction,"  but  with  a  cold  obstruction,  per 
haps  he  will  not  be  so  fast  hereafter  to  perform  the  rite, — 
no,  the  wrong  of  sepulture  on  an  unwilling  victim. 

Scarcely  had  the  readers  of  Granite  State  locals  recov 
ered  from  the  above  recital,  when  it  was  announced  in 
the  same  journal  that  in  Colebrook,  a  cow  had  been 
killed  by  a  hen.  The  instant  question,  "  How  could  a 
hen  kill  a  cow  ?  "  meets  the  as  instant  answer,  "  With  an 
axe."  The  cow  was  coming  out  of  the  stable,  when  a 
hen  flew  down  by  the  cow's  head,  at  which  the  cow 


248  THE  TRTANGULAB    SOCIETY. 

jumped  and  ran  against  a  hatchet,  the  edge  of  which 
entered  between  her  ribs.  Who  was  to  blame  ?  The  hen 
was  in  her  own  domain;  she  had  a  right  to  fly  down; 
and  had  not  the  cow  a  right  to  fly  up  about  having  her 
head  brushed  with  a  hen's  wing?  Nobody  would  like 
it;  even  a  steam  hair-brush  would  be  preferable.  The 
account  adds  sadly,  that  the  cow  died  in  three  days.  It 
is  further  stated  that  she  was  the  cow  of  a  poor  man,  and 
his  only  cow,  at  that.  It  is  not  on  record  that  in  that 
whole  three  days,  the  hen  made  the  least  attempt  at 
apology  or  restitution.  Doubtless  she  salved  her  con 
science  by  mentally  laying  the  blame  on  the  party  or 
parties  unknown,  who  made  the  axe;  and  condemned  as 
accessory  before  the  fact,  the  blood-thirsty  grindstone 
which  whetted  it. 

But  notwithstanding  her  self-extenuation,  who  envies 
that  lien's  frame  of  mind  in  the  darkness  of  the  haunted 
autumn  nights  —  say  about  Thanksgiving  time?  Amid 
the  remorseful  shapes  which  will  haunt  her  rest,  will  she 
not  see  again,  as  in  a  vision,  the  retributive  axe  ? 

Again  in  New  Hampshire,  land  of  marvels,  a  farmer 
of  Chesterfield  was  annoyed  by  a  "  fly  ''  one  day  in  hay 
ing  time.  This  is  not  an  uncommon  circumstance;  but 
mark  you,  uhe  has  since  had  sixty  or  seventy  Iarva3 
extracted  from  his  ear."  Flies  are  not  over  fastidious  in 
their  choice  of  nurseries,  but  the  apparently  unnatural 
negligence  of  its  progeny  manifested  by  this  insect,  is 
past  precedent.  How  on  earth  could  the  fly  know  but 
that  the  man  might  possibly  wash  himself  before  her  eggs 
had  time  to  hatch  ? 

There  were  two  remarkable  qualities  about  that  fly, — 
the  perfect  accuracy  with  which  she  knew  her  man  and 
his  personal  habits,  so  that  she  not  only  felt  safe  in  mak- 


THE   SIXTH  TRIANGULAR.  249 

ing  his  close  acquaintance  herself,  but  in  introducing  her 
children,  —  and  the  ingenuity  which  she  displayed  in  dis 
covering  that  a  human  head  which  could  not  be  good  for 
much  else,  would  answer  an  admirable  purpose  as  a  fly- 
factory. 

The  sympathetic  newspaper  which  records  this  occur 
rence,  says  that  the  man  "will  probably  escape  with  no 
permanent  injury."  Sparrowgrass'  rural  neighbor  told 
him  that  it  was  "  good  for  young  fruit-trees  to  be  chawed 
by  cattle,"  and  declared  that  he  had  his  "  chawed  "  every 
spring;  and  possibly  there  may  be  a  head  so  unoccupied 
that  even  the  buzzing  of  an  alien  insect  within  it,  might 
break  the  tiresome  monotony  of  stupid  hollowness,  and 
haply  be  mistaken  by  the  unaccustomed  proprietor  for 
the  nidincation  of  an  idea. 

Yet  again  in  New  Hampshire,  "  an  eccentric  citizen  of 
Button,"  who  died  not  long  ago,  bequeathed  to  his 
daughter  four  hedgehogs,  to  his  oldest  son  five  dollars,  to 
the  second  son  twenty  thousand  dollars,  and  to  the  third 
thirty  thousand  dollars.  Most  fair-minded  parents  in 
America  feel  that  there  is  a  cruel  injustice  in  the  English 
notion  of  primogeniture.  They  fail  to  see  why  the  fact 
that  a  child  happens  to  be  the  first-born  of  his  parents, — 
a  fact  to  which  he  is  only  an  involuntary  party,  —  should 
confer  on  him  a  position  and  privileges  which  are  denied 
his  equally  or  more  deserving  brother,  who,  by  no  fault 
of  his,  chances  to  be  born  later.  But  the  fact  that  a  boy 
is  the  first-born  of  a  group,  if  it  be  no  virtue  in  him,  is 
as  surely  no  sin;  and  why  this  man  should  cut  his  oldest 
son  off  with  five  dollars,  and  bestow  on  his  youngest  the 
snug  sum  of  thirty  thousand,  is  as  unjust  as  the  opposite 
course  would  have  been  ;  though  not  so  unjust  as  the 
cruelty  of  holding  his  one  unhappy  daughter  up  to  ridi- 


250  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

cule  by  bequeathing  to  her  four  hedgehogs —•*  the 
finest,"  said  this  tender  parent,  "to  be  found  in  my 
wood-lot."  It  would  seem  bad  enough  to  be  made  the 
inheritor  of  four  hedgehogs,  well  caught,  and  easy  to 
come  by;  but  human  nature,  even  a  woman's  patient 
nature,  cries  out  against  the  unfairness  of  being  made 
the  heir  to  four  wild  uncivilized  hedgehogs,  with  the 
necessity  of  doing  her  own  catching. 

The  testator  could  have  done  only  one  worse  thing  by 
his  daughter;  he  might  have  bequeathed  to  her  an  undi 
vided  third  of  four  hedgehogs,  the  remaining  thirds  to 
belong  to  his  sons,  and  then  placed  an  executor  over 
the  whole  lot.  Then  the  sons  would  have  cheated  and 
coaxed  the  daughter  out  of  her  share  in  the  hedgehogs, 
and  the  executor  would  have  humbugged  and  quibbled 
them  out  of  their  share  and  hers  too;  and  he  and  the 
lawyers  would  have  got  the  whole  at  last  —  as  they  will 
now,  for  that  matter,  only  after  a  briefer  fight.  It  is 
astonishing  to  the  normally  selfish  mind,  by  the  way,  to 
notice  how  many  men  spend  long  laborious  lives  in  pinch 
ing,  saving,  contriving,  and  suffering,  to  earn  and  make 
and  gather  and  hoard  money  fo*  the  sole  benefit  and 
advantage  of  that  species  of  animal  popularly  known  and 
execrated  as  the  executor.  Everybody  remembers  the 
titled  Irishman  who  exclaimed  with  noble  passion, 
"  What  has  posterity  done  for  us,  that  we  should  do  so 
much  for  posterity  ?  "  And  one  naturally  inquires,  what 
have  executors,  as  a  species,  done  for  wealthy  men,  that 
the  latter  should  wrong  their  own  wives,  cheat  their  own 
children,  and  disgrace  their  own  memories,  as  they  so 
often  do,  for  no  other  apparent  purpose  but  to  enrich 
executors  ? 

There  is  one  comfort  left  for  the  deceased  Suttonian's 


THE   SIXTH  TRIANGULAR.  251 

daughter  and  eldest  son.  Their  father  is  dead;  and  the 
world  can  but  seem  much  brighter  to  them  without  than 
with  such  a  parent.  True,  with  the  privilege  popularly 
accorded  to  spiteful  dead  men,  he  can  reach  out  of  his 
grave  to  keep  his  money  away  from  them;  money  which 
they  have  doubtless,  under  his  rule,  suffered  and  labofed 
enough  to  earn  a  fair  share  of;  but  that  is  the  worst  he 
can  do.  The  world  is  all  before  them  where  to  choose, 
just  as  it  would  have  been  had  their  father  been  a  pau 
per  ;  and  they  have  more  reason  to  rejoice  in  his  removal, 
since  a  father  who  could  be  so  cruel  a  tyrant  after  his 
death,  must  have  been  a  still  more  cruel  one  in  his  life, 
the  recording  of  whose  petty  domineerings  and  exasper 
ating  small  oppressions  would  probably  have  worn  out 
all  the  quills  of  all  the  porcupines  in  his  wood-lot 
aforesaid. 

A  young  man  of  Farmingdale,  in  this  State,  thought 
he  could  make  a  good  haul  by  fishing  from  a  seat  on  the 
stern-wheel  of  a  pleasure-steamer  which  lay  at  the  wharf. 
He  must  have  been  greatly  absorbed  in  his  fishing,  for 
he  sat  there  until  the  boat  started  and  knocked  him  into 
the  wheel,  and  he  was  carried  round  once  or  twice,  being 
very  badly  bruised  anil  hurt.  He  can  now  apply  for  a 
pension  on  the  ground  that  he  is  a  hero  of  the  revolution. 

There  has  for  years  been  a  tradition  of  a  woman  who 
accidentally  opened  her  mouth  so  wide  that  she  could  not 
shut  it;  and  whenever  the  "silly  season"  has  come 
round,  the  story  has  come  out  afresh,  with  new  and 
witty  comments.  At  last  the  shoe  is  on  the  other  foot. 
A  man  has  really  accomplished  the  feat  so  long  ascribed 
to  a  woman.  While  riding  near  Brookfield,  Connecticut, 
he  opened  his  mouth  so  wide  in  yawning  that  he  dislo 
cated  his  jaw,  and  had  to  ride  three  miles  to  a  doctor 


252  THE  TRIANGULAE   SOCIETY. 

before  he  could  get  it  replaced.  Here  is  something  tan 
gible,  since  the  item  appeared  in  the  newspaper  of  the 
man  who  set  it  down  that  truth  crushed  to  earth  shall 
rise  again. 

One  more  item,  a  melancholy  one,  recites  how  a  fly, 
a  "busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly,"  naturally  busy,  certainly 
curious,  and  presumably  thirsty  —  flies  always  are— > 
actually  dislocated  a  man's  shoulder.  This  was  in 
Gloucester,  Massachusetts,  and  the  shoulder  was  dislo 
cated  by  the  man's  wrathful  efforts  to  kill  the  fly  with  a 
towel.  The  moral  is,  keep  your  temper,  and  let  flies 
have  their  own  way.  The  influence  of  bad  example  is 
pernicious  and  damaging.  If  this  impatient  man  had 
not  been  put  out,  neither  would  his  shoulder  have  been. 

Alasl  there  is  not  room  in  this  paper  for  all  the 
remainder  of  recent  <md  and  droll  incidents,  New  Hamp 
shire  and  other;  and  the  chapter  must  be  closed  without 
any  allusion  to  the  sportive  man  in  Sackville,  in  the 
above  State,  who  "accommodated"  a  friend  to  money 
recently  at  the  rate  of  one  hundred  and  eighty  per  cent, 
interest;  or  the  Boscawen  curiosity-hunter  who  has,  in  his 
museum,  a  kitten  with  one  eye  in  the  middle  of  its  face, 
and  a  frog  with  six  legs  and  a  tail ;  or  to  the  "  eminent 
counsel "  at  Concord  bar,  who  used  the  expression  "  we 
submit  "  eighty  times  in  an  argument  of  an  hour's  dura 
tion;  or  to  his  colleague,  who  in  a  late  plea,  repeated 
"  as  for  that  matter  "  over  a  hundred  times  in  two  hours; 
or  to  the  depressing  state  of  things  about  Newburyport, 
where  "  a  feeling  of  insecurity  is  creeping  over  the  coun 
try  towns,  and  many  farmers  are  arming  themselves  " 
because  one  man's  hen-roost  has  been  robbed;  or  of  the 
man  in  New  Hampshire  who  invented  a  way  of  catching 
fish  without  bait,  and  put  it  in  practice  by  stealing  all 


THE   SIXTH  TRIANGULAR.  258 

the  salmon  in  the  State  hatching-house  at  Li  verm  ore ;  or 
of  a  Providence  sportsman,  who,  attempting  to  get  a 
squirrel  out  of  his  hole  in  the  stump  of  a  tree  by  the 
ingenious  method  of  poking  about  with  the  butt  of  his 
gun,  while  holding  the  weapon  by  the  muzzle,  was  natu- 
rallv  shot  in  the  leg  by  an  accidental  discharge,  and  will 
die,  while  the  squirrel  still  lives,  and  smiles  as  well  as  he 
can  with  his  cheeks  full  of  acorns,  and  meditates  on  the 
advantage  of  keeping  at  the  biggest  end  of  the  gun.  All 
these  things  and  more  must  be  passed  by  in  silence.  But 
who" believes  that  New  Englanders  are  not  funny? 


XXIII. 

NEVER   WRITE   VERSES. 

"  MOTHER,"'  said  Brunette,  one  peaceful  evening,  as 
they  sat  together,  in  that  quiet  hour  so  dear  to  house 
keepers, —  the  hour  when  "the  last  chore  is  done," 
the  house  closed  for  the  night,  breakfast  "  calculated," 
and  the  clock  wound  up,  — "  Mother,  you  are  young 
yet,  and  have  many  years  to  live.  Let  me  give  you  a 
piece  of  advice,  which  it  is  too  late  for  me  to  use 
myself.  It  is  this  :  be  careful  never  to  get  up  a  name 
for  writing  verses." 

"  Why,  Brunette,"  said  the  astonished  mother,  "  I 
have  heard  —  I  thought — I  have  certainly  heard  some- 
where,  that  '  the  gift  of  poesy  is  its  own  reward.'  I 
never  could  have  invented  that  line,  it  sounds  too 
much  like  poetry,"  mused  she,  absently  turning  round 
and  round  the  well-worn  wedding  ring,  now  a  mere 
golden  thread,  which  distinguished  her  penultimate 
finger.  "  And  it  ought  to  be  true,  for  your  sake,"  she 
added,  "  as  your  verses  don't  bid  fair  to  declare  any 
more  palpable  dividend.  Is  that  why  you  warn  me 
against  being  a  poet  ?  " 

"  That  was  n't  exactly  what  I  meant,"  said  Brunette, 
smiling,  "but  one  reason  why  you  mustn't  be  known 
as  a  verse-writer,  is  because  if  you  are,  everybody 
254 


NEVER   WRITE   VERSES.  255 

expects  you  always  to  be  posing  as  a  sentimentalist. 
Now  I  hope  I  appreciate  sentiment,  in  my  small 
degree,  but  I  do  abhor  sentimentality.  I  detest,  for 
instance,  those  silliest  of  people,  mostly  mooney  young 
men  just  out  of  college,  who,  on  a  picnic,  or  a  walk, 
are  always  citing  me  to  a  withered  flower,  or  a  dead 
leaf,  or  an  old  bird's-nest,  with,  *  There  's  a  subject  for 
your  muse,  Miss  Smith  ! ' ' 

"  But  they  only  mean  to  make  a  good  impression, 
and  give  you  the  idea  that  they  are  kindred  spirits," 
said  the  charitable  mother. 

"Kindred  fiddle-sticks!  Is  that  the  reason  why, 
the  other  day  on  the  island  excursion,  when  I  was 
starving,  having  eaten  nothing  from  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning  until  nearly  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  we 
began  to  unpack  our  baskets,  young  Mr.  Popeyes  said 
to  me,  'Of  course  you  '11  not  eat  anything,  Miss  Smith? 
I  believe  poets'  food  is  love  and  fame?'  And  when 
I  leaned  against  a  damp  tree-trunk,  and  got  a  neuralgic 
pain  in  my  arm,  he  said,  with  tremendous  wit,  that 
he  did  n't  know  so  etherial  creatures  as  poets  ever  had 
rheumatism.  I  wish  somebody  would  set  a  mouse 
trap  for  that  fellow." 

"What  could  one  bait  it  with?"  asked  the  literal 
mother. 

"  Cloves,"  said  Brunette,  spitefully,  "  he  appears 
always  to  be  nibbling  them,  whenever  I  see  him." 

"A  bad  sign  in  a  young  man,  my  child,  —  don't 
encourage  his  acquaintance,"  said  the  astute  mother. 

"  And  the  other  day,  when  the  grocer  gave  me  two 


256  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

cents  too  little  change,  and  I  insisted  on  my  due,  he 
Bmiled  a  greasy  smile,  and  said  he  didn't  suppose 
poets  were  so  careful  of  coppers.  The  croping  old 
miscalculator ! "  exclaimed  Brunette,  energetically, 
"  as  though  two  cents  were  not  of  as  much  value  to 
me  as  to  him  !  " 

"  I  have  always  said  you  are  two  centsitive,  my 
child,"  calmly  commented  the  mother,  "  but  where  did 
you  find  that  word  c  croping '  ?  I  don't  believe  it 's  in 
"Worcester." 

"  Got  it  from  my  great-grandmother,"  said  Brunette. 
"  It 's  one  of  the  best  words,  too,  and  never  ought  to 
be  lost.  It  means  more  than  grasping,  or  close,  or 
near,  or  penurious,  or  covetous;  it  means,  in  short,  just 
croping,  and  nothing  else,  —  it  is  delightfully  expressive. 
And  it  just  fits  our  grocer,  who  is  always  making  mis 
takes  in  change,  but  never  one  against  himself.  I 
always  distrust  a  man  whose  blunders  are  always  in 
his  own  favor.  But  why  should  n^t  a  poet  (not  that  I 
claim  the  name),  be  hungry,  and  thirsty,  and  tired, 
and  lame,  and  careful  of  money,  as  well  as  other  peo 
ple  ?  *  Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes  ? '  Hath  not  a  poet 
nerves,  a  stomach,  common  sense,  and  a  need  of  post 
age-stamps?  Is  she  not  'fed  with  the  same  food, 
hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject  to  the  same 
diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means,  warmed  and 
cooled  by  the  same  winter  and  summer  as  a  Christian 
is'?" 

"  You  speak  as  though  a  poet  can't  be  a  Christian," 
said  the  mother,  failing  to  recognize  the  quotation. 


NEVER   WRITE   VERSES.  257 

"  Well,  it  is  hard  work,"  agreed  Brunette.  "  Think 
of  the  half-paid  letters  full  of  worthless  manuscript, 
which  are  sent  to  me  by  utter  strangers,  to  be 
'criticised  and  corrected'  (that  means  praised),  and 
returned  at  my  own  expense !  Think  of  the  people 
who  write  to  me  to  send  them  an  '  autograph  copy  '  of 
a  poem  fifty  lines  long !  Think  of  the  applications  for 
a  stanza  from  this,  and  a  l  verse  '  from  that,  and  a  page 
from  the  other,  all  to  oblige  people  whom  I  never 
saw -I  How  can  they  thus  claim  my  time,  which  is 
money,  my  labor,  which  is  ditto,  and  my  precious 
postage-stamps  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  every  one  of  them  thinks  he  is  the  only 
applicant,  and  supposes  it  a  compliment  to  you," 
explained  the  mother.  "  People  have  droll  ideas  of 
com  —  " 

"  And  what  is  worse,"  broke  in  her  indignant  daugh 
ter,  growing  voluble  under  her  wrongs,  "  think  of  the 
people  who  write  to  me  asking  me  to  write  them  a 
personal  poem  about  the  death  of  a  wife,  or  child,  or 
great-aunt,  whom  I  never  heard  of.  Last  summer, 
somebody  sent  me  from  Wyoming,  a  request  that  I 
should  write  a  poem  about  a  captain  in  the  army,  who 
had  been  killed  by  the  abused  and  outraged  Indians, 
and  I  had  never  known,  before,  of  his  existence." 

"  I  thought  you  used  to  reply  to  those  tilings,"  said 
her  mother. 

"I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  when  I  was  younger 
and  more  foolish,  I  did,"  she  replied.  "I  wrote,  once, 
a  long  poem  at  the  request  of  a  heart-broken  widower, 


258  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

lately  bereft.  Ills  appeal  was  so  touching  that  I 
could  n't  refuse.  Of  course  it  was  a  matter  of  a  little 
delay,  and  when,  at  last,  I  sent  the  poem  to  him,  he 
returned  it,  saying  that  as  he  was  just  married,  he  no 
longer  felt  the  need  of  it,  and  was  sorry  he  had 
troubled  me.  Now  I  deposit  all  such  applications 
tenderly  in  the  waste-basket.  And  I  used  always  to 
send  my  autograph,  when  it  was  requested,  and  the 
request  accompanied  by  a  stamped  envelope.  But 
never  any  more." 

"  Why  not  ?  it  is  surely  a  little  thing  to  write  your 
name  for  an  admirer." 

"  Because  I  discovered,  after  awhile,  that  there  are 
numbers  of  men  in  the  country,  and  out  of  it,  who 
make  a  regular  business  of  soliciting  autographs, 
which  they  afterwards  advertise  for  sale,  driving  quite 
a  profitable  business.  Thus  for  two  postage-stamps, 
they  procure  an  autograph  which  they  afterward  sell 
at  anywhere  from  a  quarter  to  five  dollars;  it  depends, 
of  course,  on  the  greatness  of  the  name." 

"  That  does  make  a  difference,"  assented  the  mother, 
who  was  always  open  to  conviction,  "  but  it  is  a  great 
pity  that  one  can't  distinguish  a  real,  honest  admirer 
from  such  blood-suckers  as  those.  Is  n't  it  an  ino-en- 

i5 

ious  way  of  making  money  out  of  other  people's  repu 
tations?" 

"  The  other  day,"  said  Brunette,  "  when  I  was  enter 
ing  the  office  door,  I  met  the  local  editor,  the  best- 
natured  person  alive,  who  smilingly  assured  me  that 
there  was  a  gentleman  waiting  for  me  in  the  library, 


NEVER   WRITE  VERSES.  259 

a  friend  who  was  '  very  impatient '  to  see  me.  I 
hastened  up  stairs,  thinking  it  might  be  my  wealthy 
great-uncle  from  Trincomalee,  come  home  to  make  us 
all  happy  and  wealthy,  when  an  utter  stranger  rose  to 
meet  me,  saying  that  he  had  been  waiting  some  time 
to  secure  my  autograph  in  his  book ;  an  enormous 
volume,  which  he  could  hardly  carry.  I  replied  that 
I  never  wrote  in  albums,  and  was  in  mucli  haste,  so  if 
he  would  excuse  me,  I  would  go  on  with  my  morn 
ing's  work.  He  persisted,  and  I  politely  declined, 
though  nettled  by  his  importunity,  and  the  additional 
vexation  of  knowing  that  the  smiling  local  editor  was 
at  his  desk,  and  could  not  help  listening  to  the  whole 
conversation.  At  last  my  disagreeable  visitor  sat 
down  in  the  best  chair,  took  a  newspaper,  composed 
himself,  and  said,  4  AVeH,  I  Ve  already  lost  one  train 
for  Boston,  for  the  sake  of  getting  your  autograph, 
and  I  propose  to  lose  another,  rather  than  give  up  the 
idea  of  having  your  name  in  my  book.  I  am  going  to 
remain  until  you  write  it.' 

"  I  replied  instantly,  '  O,  if  that  is  the  case,  I  will 
write  it  at  once ! '  and  I  did,  and  so  got  rid  of  him." 

"I  never  would  have  done  it,"  said  the  usually 
amiable  mother,  "he  might  have  stayed  there  until 
the  owners  of  the  building  brought  him  a  bill  for  rent. 
I  don't  believe  in  paying  people  for  impudence ;  it  can 
be  got  cheaper." 

"And  then  another  reason  why  you  must  not  be 
known  as  a  verse-writer,  my  dear  young  woman," 
resumed  Brunette,  "is  because  if  you  are,  and  any 


260  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

letter-writer,  book-reviewer,  or  editor,  speaks  of  your 
work  in  complimentary  terms,  half  your  good  friends 
will  at  once  assume  that  in  some  way,  you  are  yourself 
responsible  for  the  compliment ;  in  fact,  they  credit 
you  with  everything  that  is  said  in  your  praise." 

"  I  think  you  mistake,  my  child;  no  one  would  be  so 
unfair  as  that!  How  can  you  prevent  comments  on 
published  articles  ?  " 

"  I  can't,  more 's  the  pity ;  but  I  tell  you  truth. 
The  other  week,  a  down-east  journal  was  actually 
guilty  of  saying  that  some  poem  of  mine  was  '  superior 
to  Longfellow.'  I  could  have  cried  with  mortification 
and  vexation,  for  I  knew  it  was  not  true,  and  I  knew, 
also,  that  it  would  be  ascribed  to  me.  Sure  enough, 
the  other  day,  on  an  island  steamer,  I  heard  a  young 
man  behind  me  remarking  in  a  loud  whisper,  '  What, 
Miss  Smith?  the  Miss  Smith  who  thinks  her  poems 
superior  to  Longfellow's  ?  You  don't  say ! '  said  he, 
evidently  intending  me  to  hear  him.  Was  n't  it  pro 
voking?" 

"I  call  it  extremely  ill-bred,"  responded  the  mother, 
"  a  thing  which  no  gentleman  or  lady  would  do." 

"  And  then,"  pursued  Brunette,  now  fully  aroused, 
"  when  once  I  happened  to  write  a  poem  that  by  some 
whim  or  chance  became  suddenly  popular,  and  was 
quoted,  garbled,  murdered,  sung,  and  stolen,  up  and 
down  the  country,  to  my  own  amazement  as  much  as 
anybody's,  —  I  was  presently  complimented  by  being 
called  '  irrepressible'  in  the  newspapers!  How  was  I 
to  blame?  ./had  never  published  the  poem  but  once ; 


NEVEH   WBITE   VEKSES.  261 

I  newer  asked  anybody  to  republisb  it,  or  procured 
any  allusion  to  it,  in  any  way  whatever.  And  yet  I 
have  been  more  abused  and  ill-treated  on  account  of 
that  unlucky  poem,  than  many  men  are  for  murder,  or 
even  for  worse  crimes.  Talk  about  newspapers  being 
the  voice  of  the  people,  and  4  vox  populi  vox  Dei '  — 
it 's  nonsense  —  and  worse.  And  that  brings  me  back 
to  my  text  —  if  you  write  verses,  don't  let  anybody 
know  it." 

"  But  what 's  the  use  of  writing  if  no  one  reads  ?  " 
asked  the  puzzled  mother.  "  What 's  the  use  of  ex 
pression  if  no  one  understands  it  ?  You  may  as  prof 
itably  allow  the  water  to  remain  in  the  well,  as  to 
draw  it  up  with  laborious  patience,  and  let  it  evapo 
rate  in  empty  air  without  doing  anybody  any  good." 

"  If  you  are  inclined  to  write  verse,"  said  Brunette, 
"  it  may  do  you  good,  as  a  means  of  relieving  your 
pent-up  feelings  —  and  as  for  being  understood,  why, 
you  can  read  your  poems  out  of  the  attic  window, 
after  dark,  when  the  world  is  still,  and  the  trees  are 
in  a  listening  mood,  and  the  bats  are  sociably  atten 
tive,  and  the  moths,  and  fire-flies,  and  June-bugs,  and 
all  the  pretty  tilings  that  fly  by  night,  draw  near  to 
hearken  and  appreciate.  They  constitute  as  good- 
natured  and  sympathetic  a  public  as  any  conscientious 
and  self-respecting  verse-writer  is  likely  to  find,  dur 
ing  hizer  life-time." 

"  What 's  the  meaning  of  hizer?"  asked  the  mother, 
abandoning,  for  the  moment,  the  subject  of  discussion. 
Not  an  opinionated  and  conceited  mother,  this,  but 


262  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

keeping  herself  "  low  and  wise,"  and  ready  to  receive 
instruction  from  her  own  children,  if  need  be. 

"Hizer?  O,  that 's  one  of  the  three  stars  in  Grant 
White's  crown  of  glory,"  said  Brunette.  "  He  grew 
tired  of  forever  writing  <  he  or  she,'  '  his  or  hers,'  and 
'  him  or  her,'  and  so  he  attempted  to  supply  a  long- 
felt  want  by  inventing  three  pronouns,  each  of  which 
should  include  both  sexes,  — '  hesh  '  for  '  he  or  she,' 
«  hizer  '  for  '  his  or  hers,'  and  '  himer  '  for  ;  him  or  her.' 
It  was  a  grand  achievement,  and  I  honor  him  for  it, 
and  if  he  could  only  have  devised  some  means  of 
making  people  adopt  the  new  words,  he  would  have 
deserved  a  silver  statue,  and  I  would  have  gone  with 
out  a  parasol  all  summer,  and  given  the  cost  of  one 
toward  his  pedestal.  There  never  was  so  labor- 
saving —  " 

"  But  it 's  asking  rather  too  much,  is  n't  it,  to  require 
that  a  public  benefactor  who  has  invented  a  blessing, 
shall  oblige  the  world  to  take  advantage  of  it  ?  " 

"  Quite  likely ;  but  if  ever  I  own  a  newspaper,  I 
will  insist  that  those  three  blessed  pronouns  shall 
be  habitually  used  in  it,  instead  of  the  clumsy  phrase 
which  they  displace.  And  another  reason  why  you 
must  not  be  known  as  a  verse-writer,"  persisted  Bru 
nette,  who  never  left  a  subject  until  she  had  freed  her 
mind,  "  is  because  of  the  unaccountable  notion,  preva 
lent  everywhere,  that  persons,  especially  women,  who 
write  verses,  are  wholly  and  utterly  impractical.  I 
have  learned  some  things  by  other  people's  experi 
ences,  and  I  assure  you  that,  how  hard  soever  you 


NEVER  WETTE  VEESES.  263 

labor,  how  much  soever  you  earn,  how  closely  soever 
you  bind  yourself  down  to  the  severe  rules  of  self- 
supporting  industry  and  independence,  still,  if  you 
ever  published  a  stanza  in  your  life,  people  will  say  — 
'  O  yes,  harmless  enough  kind  of  woman,  but  vision 
ary  —  fanciful  —  not  practical  and  e very-day  —  writes 
verses,  you  know ! '  And  then  if  you  marry,  and 
your  husband  does  n't  make  a  fortune  in  two  years, 
people  say  —  <  Of  course  he  will  always  be  poor,  —  bis 
wife  is  a  poet,  —  all  imagination,  of  course,  with  no 
economy,  or  knowledge  of  housekeeping!'  And  you 
might  do  all  the  household  work,  even  to  the  washing 
and  scrubbing,  and  all  the  sewing  for  yourself  and 
children,  and  still  you  could  not  satisfy  people  that 
you  were  practical  or  helpful." 

"I  am  convinced,"  said  the  mother.  "After  I 
become  a  poet,  I  will  never  marry,  out  of  deference 
to  people's  prejudices.  And  the  array  of  reasons  why 
I  must  not  write  verse,  is  appalling.  I  resign  all  my 
ambition  that  way  —  I  never  will  write  poems." 

"  Because,"  went  on  Brunette,  not  quite  satisfied 
with  her  case,  "  if  you  do,  your  friends  will  always  be 
saying  —  «  How  delightful  it  must  be  to  write  !  If  I 
could  write  as  you  do,  I  would  write  all  the  time  !  ' 
I  am  so  tired  of  it !  When  we  were  boarding,  a  year 
or  so  ago,  and  I  sat  opposite  that  red-faced  Major,  he 
was  always  saying  that.  What  a  gormandizer  he 
was !  and  how  persistently  he  made  that  remark  to 
me!" 

"Yes,"  responded  the  mother,  " and  I  remember 


264  THE  TEIANGULAB   SOCIETY. 

with  grief  the  impatient  reply  that  you  made,  when 
for  the  twentieth  time  he  said  —  'My  dear  Miss 
Smith,  if  I  could  write  as  you  can,  I  would  write  all 
the  time  ! '  You  actually  looked  him  in  the  face  and 
said  (he  had  just  sent  for  a  third  plate  of  pudding)  — 
4  My  dear  Major,  if  I  could  eat  as  you  can,  I  would 
eat  all  the  time ! '  " 

Brunette  laughed.  "  Well,  perhaps  it  was  a  little 
rude,  but  he  deserved  it.  And  again,  your  friends 
are  always  asking  you  to  write  something  specially 
for  them  — '  something  not  to  publish,  but  to  keep  '  — 
and  they  will  not  be  pleased,  either,  with  any  light, 
personal  thing  which  you  can  write  in  half  an  hour ; 
they  want  something  studied  and  elaborate,  which 
will  take  more  time  and  pains  than  a  two-page  poem 
for  a  magazine.  And  they  think  you  can  manage  it 
as  easily  as  you  would  turn  on  the  Sebago,  and  draw 
a  pitcher-full.  And  I  will  close  this  lecture  by  read 
ing  you  a  dimension-piece  which  I  wrote  on  one  of 
these  commissions,  the  other  day,  (and  which  I  know 
won't  suit,)  and  then  it  will  be  bed-time.  But,  my 
dear  young  friend,  beware  of  getting  a  reputation  as 
a  writer  of  verses.  Even  your  own  precious  mother 
will  not  appreciate  them!  " 

WRITING  TO  ORDER. 

"  Dear  friend,  if  I  could  only  sing  like  you, 
My  life  would  be  one  dream  of  rare  delight; 

I  would  not  cease  my  song  the  whole  year  through, 
But  keep  the  sweet  verse  flowing  day  and  night; 

Come,  weave  a  poem  just  for  me,  to-day  — 

Indeed,  dear  friend,  you  cannot  say  me  nay!  " 


NEVEB,   WRITE   VEBSES.  265 

Write  you  a  poem  ?  is  there  no  escape  ? 

Must  I  sit  down  and  spin  a  narrow  verse 
As  one  would  measure  off  a  yard  of  tape  ? 

Mark  the  result!  no  stanzas  could  be  worse 
Than  these,  to  which  laboriously  I  bend, 
Only  to  pleasure  my  exacting  friend. 

Say,  can  you  guide  the  spirits  of  the  air, 

Or  have  the  rainbow  come  before  the  shower  ? 

Or  tell  the  clouds  what  color  they  shall  wear, 
Or  help  the  gradual  budding  of  a  flower  ? 

Or  call  the  robins  back  before  they  choose, 

Hurry  the  sunset,  or  bring  down  the  dews  ? 

Can  you  command  the  planets  where  they  roll, 
Or  speak  a  nebulous  world  to  sudden  prime  ? 

Or  force  the  tides  to  own  your  small  control, 
Or  bid  a  rosebud  bloom  before  its  time  ? 

Or  make  the  brook  run  faster  at  your  word, 

Or  regulate  the  warbling  of  a  bird  ? 

Or  make  the  morn  unclose  her  golden  bars 
Before  her  hour,  to  let  the  daylight  in  ? 

Haste  the  appointed  rising  of  the  stars, 
Or  show  them  when  their  annual  rounds  begin  ? 

Or  cause  the  auroral  lights  to  fade  or  glow, 

Or  tell  the  meteors  which  way  to  go  ? 


!  "  is  the  wondering  answer  which  you  send 
Back  to  my  queries,  with  indignant  flash  — 
"  Rule  Nature  ?  no!  "     But  I  assure  you,  friend, 

He  who  should  dare  all  this,  were  not  more  rash 
Than  you,  who  would  attempt  to  rule  for  me 
The  power  whose  shadowing  forth  is  poesy. 
12 


266  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

For  he  is  wilful  as  the  wandering  air;  — 
Ay,  as  capricious  as  the  winds  that  blow; 

Sometimes  I  seek  him  vainly  everywhere  — 
Anon  he  comes,  and  stays,  and  will  not  go; 

Unwon  by  prayers,  or  tears,  or  love,  or  gold, 

Both  hard  to  drive  away  and  hard  to  hold. 

Sometimes  he  comes  with  airy  retinue 

Of  rare  conceits,  and  fancies  sweet  and  strange, 

And  dainty  dreamings ;  and  the  long  hours  through, 
He  rings  upon  my  heart  their  every  change, 

While  I  walk  charmed  and  haunted  all  the  day, 

Until  the  fair  enchantment  fades  away, 

And  he  is  gone,  as  lightning  leaves  the  sky; 

Whither,  who  knows  ?    I  may  not  call  him  back, 
Or  if  I  call,  he  comes  not;  I  might  cry 

And  wring  my  hands,  and  drape  myself  in  black, 
But  he  would  fling  defiance  from  afar; 
I  might  as  well  entreat  a  shooting  star. 

And  days  go  by,  but  he  is  absent  still, 
Perhaps  to  visit  other  hearts  than  mine; 

]STo  inspirations  then  my  pulses  thrill, 
I  cannot  braid  a  verse,  or  weave  a  line, 

Or  catch  the  strain  that  charmed  me  while  I  slept; 

My  soul  is  silent  as  a  harp  unswept. 

And  so  I  wait.     Not  now  with  toil  and  pain 
I  try  to  win  him  back,  and  plead  with  him, 

And  blame  myself,  and  bruise  my  barren  brain 
Against  his  lordly  will  or  freakish  whim, — 

For  I  have  learned  mute  patience,  knowing  when 

My  master  pleases,  he  will  come  again. 


NEVER   WRITE   VEESES.  267 

So,  friend,  forgive  this  stubborn  pen  of  mine, 

It  will  not  always  yield  to  my  behest; 
The  summer  firefly  can  not  always  shine  — 

The  roses  have  the  winter-time  to  rest  — 
The  sparrow  does  not  warble  all  the  year, 
And  why  should  I,  who  have  so  few  to  hear  ? 


XXIY. 
BROKEN  BONES. 

"  BRUNETTE,  Bessie  Brier  's  broken  her  bones ! ' 
cried  Bob,  rushing  in,  pale  and  hatless,  from,  his  play. 

"Well,  if  that  isn't  a  pretty  good  specimen  o 
«  apt  alliteration's  artful  aid '  —  "  began  his  sister. 

"  No,"  said  Bob,  out  of  breath,  "  they  did  n't  have 
any  litter  —  two  of  the  girls  just  took  her  by  th( 
elbows  and  helped  her  home,  just  as  the  men  lif 
about  Mrs.  Jarley's  wax-works,  and  they  've  sent  fo] 
the  doctor,  and  —  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  in  earnest  ? "  ex 
claimed  his  sister,  springing  up,  and  sending  he 
sheets  of  manuscript  flying  over  the  floor.  "  I  'n 
going  to  see  what 's  the  matter."  And  she  flew  dowi 
stairs  like  the  wind. 

"  There,  she  never  waited  to  hear  half  the  story,: 
grumbled  Bob,  picking  up  one  of  the  written  sheets 
and  folding  it  carefully  into  the  proper  shape  for  th 
wings  of  a  "  dart,"  —  for,  having  unburdened  his  sou 
of  its  bad  news,  he  felt  relieved  from  responsibility 
and  went  about  his  usual  mischievous  avocations  un 
troubled,  and  with  even  more  than  his  customary  fear 
lessness,  because  of  his  restraining  relative's  ternpc 
rary  absence. 

268 


BROKEN  BONES.  269 

"  And  I  guess  that  's  one  thing  she  won't  make 
verses  about,"  continued  he,  half-aloud,  rummaging  in 
her  work-box  for  a  needle.  "  Mother  said,  the  other 
day,  that  there  are  some  things  which  have  n't  any 
poetical  side,  and  I  guess  a  broken  leg  is  one  of  'em," 
concluded  he,  as  he  threw  his  new  dart  vigorously 
against  the  wall.  It  struck  directly  in  the  right  eye 
of  a  little-girl  chromo,  entitled  "  The  Village  Pet," 
which,  on  account  of  the  dumpiness  of  the  subject, 
was  known  in  the  household  as  "  the  village  chub." 
It  was  too  high  for  Bob  to  reach,  and  he  knew  that 
his  sister  would  be  back  before  he  could  build  a  stag 
ing  of  the  table,  a  chair,  and  her  desk,  so  he  concluded 
to  look  unconscious,  and  trust  the  future. 

But  when  Brunette  returned  from  her  neighborly 
inquiries,  the  dart  was  the  first  thing  she  saw.  "  Bob," 
said  she,  '-I  think  a  great  boy  who  is  big  enough  to 
make  cento  stanzas,  and  read  poetry  to  his  mother 
and  sister,  is  too  large  to  play  with  paper  darts  —  in 
that  cruel  way,  at  least,"  she  continued,  dislodging 
the  weapon  with  the  aid  of  the  yard-stick  from  the 
closet. 

"  It  did  n't  hurt  her  any,"  said  he,  regarding  the 
picture,  "she  never  stopped  smiling.  And  you  can't 
always  judge  a  poet  by  his  size,"  remarked  he,  philo 
sophically,  "or  anybody  else,"  he  continued.  "People 
always  tell  boys  that  they  're  too  big  to  do  this  or 
that,  or  big  enough  to  be  better  —  as  though  folks 
were  good  in  proportion  to  their  size,  and  Daniel 
Lambert  the  best  man  that  ever  lived.  That 's 


270  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

another  thing  that  I  don't  believe  in.  But  did  n't  I 
tell  you  true  about  Bessie  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  poor  child  will  be  kept  in  the  house  for 
weeks,"  said  the  mother,  coming  in  from  the  gate, 
where  a  neighbor  had  told  her  the  news. 

"  And  I  suppose  Brunette  will  be  writing  it  out  for 
her  newspaper,"  said  Bob,  who  always  spoke  of  the 
office  in  which  Brunette  was  merely  a  humble  assist 
ant,  as  though  it  were  a  small  part  of  her  private 
property. 

"  That 's  just  what  I  am  going  to  do,"  said  she,  as 
she  vanished  up  stairs ;  "  and  I  can  do  it  better  where 
there  is  n't  a  boy  small  enough  to  do  mischief,  and 
large  enough  to  philosophize." 

That  evening,  after  the  lamp  was  lighted,  she  read 
them  her  account  of  the  accident. 

THE  FACT  AND  THE  REPORT. 
A  Portland  Version  of  "  the  Ring  and  the  Book." 

Live  fact  deadened  down, 
Talked  over,  bruited  abroad,  whispered  away. 

Robert  Browning. 

I. 

THE   FACTS  IN"  THE   CASE. 

Bessie,  little  damsel  fair, 

Whom  this  truthful  tale  concerns, 
With  her  blondest  of  blonde  hair, 

Always  minding  one  of  Burns' 
"  Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks  —  " 

Bessie,  by  some  oversight, 
Had  an  accident,  that  shocks 

Pen  and  paper  to  recite. 


BROKEN  BONES.  271 

One  unlucky  day  last  week, 

She,  in  playing  hide  and  seek. 
Climbed  the  grape-vine  lattice-work;  — 

And,  to  run  and  reach  the  goal, 
Jumped  off  with  a  dreadful  jerk 

Fit  to  sever  sense  and  soul. 
Landing  on  the  frozen  ground 

In  a  little  aching  heap, 
Presently  poor  Bessie  found 

She  had  made  a  costly  leap; 
Broken  by  that  dreadful  hurt, 
One  poor  ankle  hung  inert: 

Twisted  somehow,  both  the  bones 

Snapped  like  pipe-stems;  and  her  groans 
Called  her  playmates,  half  afraid 
And  half  doubtful,  to  her  aid,  — 

Two  of  whom,  with  careful  tread, 

Hopped  her  slowly  home  to  bed. 


II. 

WHAT  THE  NEIGHBORS  SAID. 

"  There!  that  child  has  got  a  bump! 
She  's  a  lively  one  to  jump  — 

Climbing  wall  and  fence  and  roof, 

Never  scared,  and  tumble-proof; 
Anybody  would  have  said 

'T  is  a  marvel,  in  its  way, 
That  she  did  not  break  her  head, 

Or  her  neck,  before  to-day." 


272  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

III. 
THE  RESULTING  CIRCUMSTANCES. 

Bessie,  though  laid  up  in  splints, 
Dreaded  much  the  public  prints  — - 
Did  not  wish  this  mournful  tale 
Carried  up  and  down  by  mail; 
"  No,"  said  Bessie,  u  how  't  would  look! 
Ho  young  lady  in  a  book 

Breaks  her  leg  while  romping  —  no, 
Do  not  have  it  published  so 
In  the  papers'  local  news! " 
So  her  friends,  who  shared  her  views, 
Pitying  her  bashfulness, 
Wrote  the  story  out  like  this: 

IV. 

THE  NEWSPAPER  VERSION. 

Pretty  little  Bessie  B., 
Sat  one  morning  quietly 

Hemming,  by  her  mother's  side, 

Kitchen  towels,  long  and  wide, 
Making  labor  do  for  sport, 
Singing  softly  Ct  Hold  the  fort." 

Ah,  't  was  an  unlucky  day! 
"With  no  warning  creak  at  all, 

Suddenly  her  chair  gave  way, 
And  poor  Bessie  caught  a  fall. 

Down  she  went,  with  dreadful  jar, 
And,  alas,  untoward  fate! 

Tibia  and  fibula 
Cracked  off  short  beneath  her  weight. 


BROKEN   BONES.  273 

Now  poor  Bessie  lies  and  groans, 
With  no  color  in  her  cheeks, 

Kept  in  bed  by  broken  bones, 
Caged  for  six  or  seven  weeks. 

V. 

COMMENT  OF  THE  READER. 

Why  should  such  a  lovely  child, 
Meek,  industrious,  quiet,  mild, 

Sweet,  domestic,  musical, 

Suffer  from  a  dreadful  fall  ? 
Had  she  been  like  some  we  meet, 
Always  romping  in  the  street, 

Like  a  tomboy  wild  and  rude, 

Never  trying  to  be  good  — 
Been  as  many  others  are, 
Less  obedient  to  her  ma, 

Less  deserving  of  esteem, 
Less  afraid  of  doing  wrong, 

Less  industrious  at  her  seam, 
Less  religious  in  her  song, 

Less  fastidious  in  her  verse, 

Things  could  not  have  happened  worse! 

VI. 

VERDICT  OF  THE  PUBLIC. 

Gentlest  ways  and  blondest  curls 

Cannot  alter  Fate's  intents, 
And  the  nicest  little  girls 

Meet,  sometimes,  with  accidents. 

"  Brunette,"  said  her  mother,  when  she  had  finished 
reading,  "if  you  hope  to  pass  that  off  as  a  'local,'  I 
think  you  mistake ;  I  don't  believe  the  editor  will 
publish  it." 

12* 


XXV. 

THE  SEVENTH  TRIANGULAR. 

"I  AM  going  to  delight  you  with  some  of  your 
favorite  prose,  this  evening,"  said  Brunette,  at  the 
next  Society  meeting.  "  Whatever  you  can  care  for 
those  stupid  prose  articles  on  current  topics,  is  more 
than  I  can  see.  But  first,  I  have  a  little  bit  of  verse, 
which  may  interest  you  because  you  know  the  locality 
mentioned.  It  used  to  be  a  pretty  place  up  there, 
and  I  've  walked  off  many  a  fit  of  discouragement 
there;  but  they're  spoiling  it  now  by  allowing  those 
workshops  and  mills  built  down  close  to  the  water. 
It 's  too  bad."  And  she  read  the  following : 

MUNJOY  HILL. 

When,  years  ago,  along  the  hill 

I  wandered,  in  the  twilight  still, 
There,  where  the  waters  meet  the  land, 
The  waves  ran  lightly  up  the  sand, 

And  old  as  time,  but  ever  new, 

Sang  their  soft  song  —  "  Forever  true!  " 

Again  I  pace,  with  footsteps  slow, 

The  pleasant  haunt  of  long  ago, 
And  note  how  time  has  wrought  its  spell 
On  all  the  scenes  beloved  so  well, 

Where  gradual  growth,  and  loss,  and  change, 

Make  half  the  landscape  new  and  strange. 
274 


THE  SEVENTH  TBIANGTJLAR.  275 

Remembered  trees  no  more  are  seen, 
New  boundaries  check  the  stretches  green; 

New  roofs  and  chimneys  sharply  rise 

Against  the  old  familiar  skies  — 
And  nothing,  save  the  constant  sea, 
Remains  as  then  it  used  to  be. 

The  very  faces  in  the  street 

Are  changed  from  those  I  used  to  meet; 

Only  the  fickle,  varying  sea 

Has  kept  its  vow  of  constancy, 
And  murmurs  still,  the  gloaming  through, 
The  same  old  vow  —  "  Forever  true!  " 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  mother,  "that  your 
genius  is  particularly  local.  You  are  always  harping 
on  something  in  or  about  Portland." 

"And  why  not?"  said  Brunette,  with  spirit. 
"  Where  should  I  find  a  prettier  place  ?  a  place  where 
the  sky  is  clearer,  the  air  purer,  the  men  fairer,  or  the 
women  braver?  a  place  where  you  can  walk  longer 
without  being  overtaken  by  a  street-car,  or  work 
harder  for  the  money  you  earn  ?  And  why  should  n't 
I  write  about  the  scenes  and  things  I  know  best? 
Should  I  sit  here  in  Maine  and  write  about  the  glories 
of  the  tropics  ?  " 

"  Moore  sat  in  smudgy,  foggy  London,  and  wrote 
about  the  splendors  of  the  east,"  said  the  mother. 

"And  Dore  sat  in  Paris  and  drew  a  picture  of 
heaven,"  rejoined  Brunette,  "  and  I  think  neither  of 
them  caught  much  of  the  real  spirit  of  his  subject. 
As  for  the  east,  Maine  is  east  enough  for  me.  And  if 


276  THE  TRIANGULAB   SOCIETY. 

everybody  would  write  about  the  place  he  knows 
best,"  she  continued,  "  if  the  poets  of  Portland,  the 
skalds  of  Scarborough,  the  singers  of  Saccarappa,  the 
warblers  of  Waldoboro,  the  bards  of  Biddeford,  the 
minstrels  of  Meddybemps,  the  versifiers  of  Vermont, 
and  the  minnesingers  of  Massachusetts,  would  all 
celebrate  in  verse  whatever  is  worth  celebrating  in 
their  own  localities,  what  a  glorified  gazetteer  we 
should  have ! " 

The  mother  took  a  long,  long  breath.  "  I  'm  afraid 
Longfellow's  '  Poems  of  Places '  would  occupy  as 
many  volumes  as  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,"  said 
she.  "  And  who  would  read  them  through  ?  " 

"  Fortunately  that  is  n't  the  poets'  lookout,"  replied 
Brunette.  "  If  the  world  does  n't  choose  to  read 
what 's  written  for  it,  that 's  the  world's  bad  taste. 
But  now  I  '11  read  you  something  that  is  n't  especially 
local." 

THE    COLORADO    POTATO    BUG,     D.   D. 

HIS  TRICKS  AND  MANNERS,  AND  WHAT   THE 
NEWSPAPERS   SAY  ABOUT  HIM. 

When,  a  generation  or  so  ago,  Mr.  Say,  the  naturalist, 
discovered,  in  some  cranny  of  the  Rock}^  Mountains,  the 
beetle,  since  grown  infamous  by  the  name  of  Dorypliora 
Decemlineata,  (by  sundry  exasperated  farmers  shortened 
to  the  d cl  bug,  so  surely  does  familiarity  breed  con 
tempt,)  he  little  knew  what  worry  he  was  inflicting 
on  the  cultivators  and  devourers  of  potatoes,  nor  how 
heartily  his  discovery  and  himself  would  be  execrated 
by  future  grangers.  Had  the  veil  of  the  future  been 


THE  SEVENTH  TRIANGULAR.       277 

rent  before  that  gentleman's  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  he 
enabled  to  see  the  torment  which  he  was  preparing  for 
others,  perhaps  instead  of  pluming  himself  on  his  dis 
covery,  and  preparing  a  paper  about  it,  to  read  before 
the  Academy  of  Science,  he  would  have  contented  him 
self  with  mashing  his  wretched  specimen  of  an  accursed 
race,  and  turning  over  another  stone  in  search  of  a  bug 
with  less  mischievous  propensities,  on  which  to  write  a 
discourse. 

But,  in  an  evil  hour,  Mr.  Say  gave  the  bug  to  the 
world,  and  now  the  world  must  make  the  best  of  him. 
The  extent  of  his  popularity  has  only  been  equalled  by 
the  rapidity  of  his  increase;  in  fact,  so  widely  have  his 
name  and  achievements  spread,  and  so  important  a  feat 
ure  has  he  become  in  the  calculations  and  prospects  of  a 
large  class  of  people,  so  much  space  and  thought  are 
given  to  him  in  the  newspapers,  that  many  of  the  rural 
prints  are  hardly  themselves  without  a  potato-bug  item 
in  every  issue.  The  number  and  variety  of  printed  com 
ments  which  have  been  made  upon  him,  and  the  best 
method  of  murdering  him,  must  certainly  have  highly 
amused  the  object  of  them,  if  indeed  the  D.  I),  reads  the 
newspapers. 

When  the  beetle,  or  rather  the  grub  — for  the  beetle 
himself  does  not  eat  much  in  his  grown-up  state  —  first 
began  his  ravages,  the  farmers  rushed  into  all  manner 
of  experiments  for  destroying  him.  Soot,  ashes,  lime, 
road-dust,  soap-suds,  kerosene,  whale-oil  soap,  and  lots 
of  other  abominations  were  tried,  to  reduce  his  appetite 
and  numbers,  with  imperfect  success.  Some  of  these 
things  the  bugs  welcomed  as  a  sort  of  relish,  which 
increased  their  appetites  for  potato  salad ;  some  of  them 
killed  the  bugs  and  the  potatoes  too;  and  some  were 


278  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

found  to  be  so  expensive  as  to  make  it  cheaper  for  farm 
ers  to  buy  potatoes  than  to  raise  them.  By-and-by  some 
body  proposed  to  sprinkle  the  potato  plants  with  Paris 
green. 

This  drug,  by  the  way,  has  peculiar  properties.  It  is 
surely  one  of  the  most  virulent  poisons  in  the  world, 
being  that  combination  of  arsenic  and  copper  which  is 
used  to  color  wall-paper  green,  and  which,  thus  used,  the 
medical  journals  have  so  often  spoken  of  as  causing  seri 
ous  illness  and  even  death,  in  otherwise  wholesome  and 
well-kept  homes.  If  the  minute  exhalations  from  the 
walls  of  a  room  may  prove  fatal,  certainly  it  cannot  be 
very  wholesome  to  handle  the  same  poison  by  the  peck, 
or  to  inhale  it,  as  one  inevitably  must,  in  strewing  it 
over  a  large  field.  But  the  papers  say  one  must  "keep 
to  the  windward"  of  it.  Alas!  do  not  people  generally 
keep  to  the  windward  of  their  wall-paper  and  carpets  ? 
Physicians  even  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  small  amount 
of  arsenical  green  which  is  used  in  coloring  some  sorts 
of  dress  goods,  has  been  known  to  have  a  fatal  effect  on 
the  wearers,  no  matter  how  much  they  keep  to  the 
windward. 

Paris  green  seems  to  kill  exactly  what  it  is  desired  not 
to  kill.  It  has  been  recommended  as  fatal  to  cock 
roaches,  but  they  grow  fat  on  it.  It  is  often  prescribed 
for  rats  and  mice,  but  nobody  ever  knew  them  to  grow 
any  less  numerous  from  its  effects.  But  the  agricultural 
papers  say  that  u  one  pound  of  poison  mixed  with  fifteen 
pounds  of  damaged  flour,  and  sifted  on  the  vines,"  will 
effectually  settle  the  hash  of  the  bugs.  No  directions, 
however,  are  given  as  to  the  best  method  of  damaging 
the  flour,  and  there  are  many  people  who  have  none 
ready  damaged. 


THE   SEVENTH  TRIANGULAR.  279 

Then  again  there  are  persons  who  declare  that  the 
pestiferous  bug  will  not  die  after  eating  the  drug.  A 
man  in  Alburgh,  Vermont,  sprinkled  his  vines  with  a 
mixture  of  two  tablespoonfuls  of  the  poison  to  a  pail  of 
water,  and  the  next  morning  he  found  the  bugs  as  lively 
at  work  as  ever,  and  could  find  none  of  them  dead.  He 
took  some  of  the  insects  and  put  them  in  the  settlings  of 
his  pail,  and  left  them  over  night.  The  next  morning 
they  were  alive,  and  eagerly  devoured  some  potato-tops 
which  he  put  in  the  pail.  On  which  occasion,  probably, 
he  wrote  the  popular  lyric  beginning: 

How  doth  the  sweet  potato-bug 

Unruffled  and  serene, 
Smile,  as  he  nips  the  tender  plant 

And  leaves  the  Paris  green! 

At  the  same  time,  word  comes  from  Troy,  New  York, 
that  large  quantities  of  dead  fish  are  found  floating  on 
the  water  and  lying  on  the  banks  of  the  streams  in  Eens- 
selaer  and  Washington  counties.  They  have  been 
poisoned  by  Paris  green,  which  the  farmers  in  that 
section  have  been  using  in  their  fields  for  the  destruction 
of  the  potato-bug.  In  New  Hampshire,  five  cows,  stray 
ing  into  a  potato-field,  were  said  to  have  been  killed  by 
eating  the  potato-tops  which  had  been  doctored  with 
Paris  green  for  the  benefit  of  the  bugs.  Pennsylvania 
papers  state  that  in  Lancaster  county,  the  potato-patches 
are  full  of  dead  English  sparrows.  The  theory  of  their 
wholesale  destruction  is  that  the  birds  eat  the  Colorado 
beetle  which  has  been  destroyed  by  Paris  green,  and  are 
thus  poisoned. 

As  soon  as  this  story  is  digested,  a  Vermont  paper 
comes  out  with  a  story  of  a  wretched  little  boy  in  Wills- 
boro,  who,  coming  into  the  house  with  a  very  dirty  face 


280  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

moustached  with  the  legs  and  wings  of  insects,  was  asked 
to  explain  himself,  when  he  stated  that  he  had  been  eat 
ing  potato-bugs,  and  so  it  proved.  And  yet  the  little 
monster  was  not  damaged,  and  if  he  felt  any  qualms  of 
the  stomach,  he  never  grumbled,  nor  did  the  bugs.  This 
seemed  a  good  way  out  of  the  D.  D.  difficulty  ;  it  hinted 
at  a  useful  and  profitable  employment  for  boys  during 
vacation,  and  suggested  the  propriety  of  turning  them 
out  to  pasture  until  potato-digging  time,  and  so  saving 
their  board,  beside  securing  a  little  quiet  for  their  mothers 
and  sisters.  But  somehow  the  bothersome  bug  does  not 
agree  with  all  constitutions.  An  Irishman  in  Massachu 
setts  was  lately  poisoned  fatally  by  treading  on  them 
with  his  bare  feet;  and  later,  a  man  in  Oxford  county, 
happening  to  touch  an  excoriated  spot  on  his  neck,  with 
fingers  stained  with  bug-picking,  died  in  consequence. 
In  Canton,  New  York,  a  farmer  was  quite  badly  poisoned 
by  the  fumes  of  a  mess  of  potato-bugs  which  he  was 
burning  in  a  pan.  His  face,  hands,  and  parts  of  his  body 
were  badly  affected,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  the 
trouble  was  checked. 

More  dreadful  but  less  credible  stories  come  up  from 
the  South,  that  land  of  marvels.  A  number  of  deaths 
have  been  reported  as  the  result  of  bug-bites  in  Virginia, 
a  notable  case  being  that  of  a  child  in  Browneal,  who 
was  bitten  by  one  of  the  insects,  and  died  in  fifteen 
minutes.  These  latter  stories  may,  however,  be  better 
taken  with  a  slight  saline  admixture,  as  coming  from  a 
State  wherein  more  or  less  persons  every  year  are  said  to 
die  from  the  bite  of  the  common  house-spider;  where 
children  cry  themselves  to  death;  and  where,  within  five 
years,  according  to  the  local  papers,  the  deceiver  of  souls 
himself  has  appeared  bodily,  with  a  strong  smell  of 
brimstone. 


THE   SEVENTH   TRIANGULAR.  281 

Some  of  these  talcs  of  the  beetle  may  be  true.  All  of 
them,  surely,  cannot  be  so,  since  they  are  flatly  contra 
dictory.  Like  most  individuals  whose  fate  it  is  to  be  much 
watched  and  talked  of,  it  is  probable  that  the  Doryph- 
ora  is  somewhat  misrepresented  —  in  short,  that  people 
lie  about  him.  It  is  not  at  all  likely,  for  instance,  that  an 
insect  whose  smoke  when  he  is  burned,  or  whose  steam 
when  he  is  boiled,  is  fatal  to  grown  men,  would  be  harm 
less  when  taken  in  quantities  into  the  stomach  of  a  young 
child,  although  the  masculine  infant  of  the  human  spe 
cies  can  swallow  almost  anything  with  impunity.  And 
Paris  green  cither  kills  the  Doryphora  or  it  does  not  kill 
him.  If  it  is  fatal  to  him  in  Maine  and  Massachusetts, 
he  cannot  fatten  on  it  in  Vermont.  And  when  we  read 
that  in  one  section,  it  is  the  grub  alone  that  eats,  the 
grown-up  beetles  having  something  else  to  attend  to  in 
the  way  of  stealing  their  nests  and  laying  eggs,  while  in 
another  State  the  papers  declare  that  the  adult  bugs  do 
the  mischief,  we  may  be  sure  that  somebody  mistakes, 
and  it  is  n't  the  beetle. 

After  all  is  done  and  said,  in  fun  and  in  earnest,  the 
Doryphora,  which  by  any  other  name  would  smell  quite 
as  sweet,  call  him  Chrysomelaor  Colorado  beetle,  or  plain 
potato-bug,  as  you  please,  appears  to  have  somehow  the 
best  of  it;  and  it  is  rather  a  good  joke,  on  the  whole,  to 
see  the  lord  of  creation,  as  he  is  fond  of  styling  himself, 
after  all  his  vaunted  mastery  of  the  powers  of  the  earth 
and  air,  after  all  his  triumphs  over  the  stubborn  forces  of 
nature,  thus  utterly  put  to  rout  by  a  wretched  little  bug. 
He  may  boast  about  compassing  the  oceans,  but  he  can 
not  manage  the  curculio;  he  may  prate  about  annihilat 
ing  distance  by  steam,  but  the  unwinking  eye  of  the 
Western  grasshopper  disconcerts  him;  he  may  spout 


282  THE  TRIANGULAR  SOCIETY. 

orations  and  drink  toasts  about  girding  the  world  with 
telegraph  lines,  but  the  canker-worm  outmeasures  him, 
and  makes  desolate  his  beautiful  places;  he  may  grow 
eloquent  about  leaving  his  record  on  the  ages,  and  then 
stand  nonplussed  before  a  miserable  little  hard-shelled 
beetle.  He  may  boast  that  he  "has  power  over  all  the 
beasts  of  the  field,"  but  wise  men  lay  their  heads  together 
in  vain  council  against  the  soft  defenceless  worm,  and 
governors  of  the  Western  States  hold  conventions  to 
declare  ineffectual  war  on  the  brittle  grasshopper.  Per 
haps  the  Doryphora,  like  the  toad,  bears  a  jewel  in  his 
head,  —  a  lesson  of  humility  to  overweening  conceit;  and 
if,  as  pay  for  his  preaching,  he  eats  up  all  the  potatoes, 
and  worse  comes  to  worst,  people  can  live  without  them, 
as  they  did  before  the  fourteenth  Louis  tried  to  make  the 
tubers  popular  by  wearing  potato-blossoms  in  his  button 
hole.  But  in  spite  of  all  our  boasted  triumphs  in  science 
and  art,  the  grasshopper,  the  canker-worm,  and  the  potato- 
beetle  put  their  thumbs  to  their  noses  and  defy  us  as 
utterly  as  the  frogs  did  the  ancient  Egyptians. 

"  There  's  something  practical  about  that,  now,"  said 
the  matter-of-fact  parent.  "  I  Ve  gained  several  new 
ideas  from  it,  and  so,  I  dare  say,  has  Bob." 

"Well,  I  don't  like  it  half  so  well  as  I  did  the  arti 
cle  about  the  cockroach,"  said  Bob.  "  I  like  to  hear 
something  that  has  some  of  my  own  ideas  in  it,  in 
stead  of  new  ones." 

'•I  dare  say,"  said  Brunette.  "Most  people  are 
delighted  at  finding  in  print  some  notion  of  their  own 
that  they  never  would  have  taken  the  pains  to  set 
down.  It  gives  them  a  hazy  idea  that  they  might 


THE   SEVENTH  TRIANGULAR.  283 

be  authors   themselves,  if  they  would  only  take  the 
trouble.     Now  it 's  our  mother's  turn." 

"  Here  's  something  I  found  in  a  magazine,"  said 
the  latter. 

AFTERGLOW. 

To  one  abstruse  conundrum  much  serious  thought  I  give  — 
Why  is  it  that  the  good  men  die,  and  all  the  bad  ones  live  ? 
Or  why  is  it  we  never  know  our  neighbor's  rare  perfec 
tions 
Till  his  last  will  and  testament  is  read  to  his  connections  ? 

Ah,  then  the  daily  papers  spread  his  virtues  all  abroad: 
They  say  he  was  "  an  honest  man  —  the  noblest  work  of 

God;" 
How  good  he  was,  how  wise  he  was,  how  honest  in  his 

dealing  — 
What  tenderness  of  heart  he  had,  and  what  a  depth  of 

feeling  ! 

Perhaps  the  man  was  one  of  those  — ah,  would  that  they 
were  fewer ! 

Who  all  his  life  ground  hard  and  close  the  faces  of  the 
poor; 

Who  drove  his  debtors  to  despair  by  premature  fore 
closure, 

Then  paid  his  pew-rent  in  advance,  with  infinite  com 
posure. 

Perhaps  he  was  the  lordly  "  head  "  of  some  unhappy  place 
Called  "home  "by  use  and  courtesy,  but  lacking  all  its 

grace; 

Who  held  his  children  criminals  for  every  trifling  error, 
Who  pinched  his  household  half  to  death,  and  kept  his 

wife  in  terror. 


284  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Perhaps  he  was  a  lawyer  deep,  whose  quibbling  tricks 

and  words 

Helped  base  executors  to  rob  poor  widows  of  their  thirds ; 
Perhaps  a  thrifty  grocer-man,  whose   wheedling,  false 

palaver 

Sold  toughest  steak  for  porter-house,  and  chicory  for  Java. 

Perhaps  he  was  a  husband  who,  through  all  his  married 

life, 

Kegardecl  honor,  faith  and  truth  as  duties  —  of  his  wife  — 
And  strove  his  sidewise  discipline  beyond  the  grave  to 

carry, 
By  threats  to  leave  her  penniless  if  she   should   dare 

remarry. 
Any  of  these  he  might  have  been  — the  types  are  nowise 

rare  — 

But  when  he  dies,  behold,  we  passed  an  angel  unaware! 
Since  type  and  tongue  proclaim  his  worth,  what  cynic 

shall  dispute  them  ? 
"  Many  there  be  who  meet  the  gods,"  we  read,  "  but  few 

salute  them  ! " 

Why  don't  the  papers  say  fine  things  of  men  before  they 

die, 

And  indicate  these  saintly  souls  ere  yet  they  soar  on  high  ? 
Then  we  might  recognize  them  ere  grim  death  and  "  cold 

obstruction  " 

Have  made  it  quite  impossible  to  get  an  introduction. 
Ah,  well  —  perhaps  when  I  at  last  beneath  my  burden 

faint, 

I,  too,  shall  win  the  title  of  a  paragon  and  saint, 
And  be,  when  death's  cold  breath  has  blown  aside  life's 

dust  and  soiling, 
A  grain  of  that  superior  salt  which  keeps  the  world  from 

spoiling  1 


THE   SEVENTH   TRIANGULAR.  285 

"  Are  n't  you  afraid  of  being  considered  too  '  lo 
cal  '  ?  "  asked  Brunette,  roguishly. 

"Local?  no,  indeed  —  you  don't  mean  to  say  that 
there  arc  any  such  men  as  those  in  this  town  ? "  said 
the  horrified  mother. 

"  Surely  not"  rejoined  Brunette ;  "  it  only  reminded 
me  of  the  eulogistic  obituaries  which  I  see  occasion 
ally.  There  is  something  droll  in  the  fact  that  people 
are  not  at  all  afraid  to  speak  in  the  most  unflattering 
terms  of  a  man  during  his  life,  —  even  the  careful  and 
conscientious  newspaper  magnate  will  not  hesitate, 
perhaps,  to  give  a  brutally  frank  estimate  of  his  char 
acter  and  his  achievements ;  but  after  he  dies,  and  can 
no  longer  be  either  hurt  or  helped  by  his  fellow-creat 
ures'  opinion,  they  gloze  over  all  his  sins,  and  say 
nothing  but  good  of  him.  I  wonder  if  it  is  because 
the  obituary-writer  has  an  uneasy  sense  that  '  the  sub 
ject  of  this  notice,'  disembodied  and  impalpable,  is 
standing  unseen  at  his  elbow,  and  watching  every 
word  ?  Or  is  it  on  the  principle  of  a  sentence  I  heard 
in  the  street  the  other  day,  as  I  hurried  past  a  con 
versation  which  was  being  carried  on  between  two 
brainy-looking  gentlemen,  one  of  whom  had  a  note 
book,  and  the  other  a  reporter's  writing-pad,  in  his 
hand;  — 'Well,  we're  rid  of  old  Blank,  at  last,  and 
we  may  as  well  give  him  a  good  send-off ! '  " 

"That  was  business,"  said  the  charitable  mother. 
"All  professions  have"  their  little  technicalities,  you 
know.  I  don't  suppose  the  man  who  said  that,  really 
expected  to  convince  any  of  Mr.  Blank's  acquaintances 


286  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

that  he  was  a  good  man,  or  that  heaven  would  accept 
him  on  the  recommendation  or  representation  of  a 
newspaper  reporter.  I  fancy  people  write  flattering 
obituaries  of  a  questionable  dead  man  just  as  the 
Mutual  Life  Insurance  Company  pays  his  policy  — 
for  the  benefit  of  his  friends.  And  now  Bob  has  the 
floor."  So  Bob  read  as  follows  : 

MADGE  MILLER. 

Madge  Miller,  on  a  summer  day, 
Walked,  as  usual,  her  pleasant  way. 

Her  dress  was  tidy,  her  apron  white; 
Her  face  was  sweet  as  the  morning  light. 

She  was  a  simple  village  maid 
Learning  a  country  milliner's  trade. 

Her  hands  were  soft,  and  her  dress  was  clean, 
And  little  she  knew  what  care  might  mean. 

She  said,  "  I  '11  work  at  my  pretty  trade, 
And  live  a  happy  and  free  old  maid. 

"  Lovers  may  come  and  lovers  may  go, 
I  '11  have  none  of  them,  no,  no,  no  !  " 

But  a  suitor  came  with  a  tall  silk  hat; 
He  told  her  a  story  worth  two  of  that  — 

The  same  old  story  by  lovers  told 

Since  first  the  earth  out  of  chaos  rolled  — 

(Let  us  kindly  hope,  who  are  old  and  wise, 
He  did  not  know  he  was  telling  lies.) 


THE    SEVENTH   TRIANGULAR.  287 

"  Marry  me,  darling,  and  you  shall  be 
The  happiest  woman  on  land  or  sea. 

"  !N"o  longer  then  will  you  have  to  go 
To  your  daily  labor  through  heat  or  snow. 

"  It  shall  be  my  pleasure,  my  law,  my  life, 
To  make  you  a  blest  and  happy  wife. 

"  Marry  me,  and  you  never  shall  know 
A  sorrow  or  hardship,  a  care  or  woe!  " 

She  heard  the  story  of  promised  bliss  — 
She  waited,  wavered,  and  answered  "  Yes  1" 

Bright  and  big  was  the  honey-moon, 
But  clouded  by  worldly  care  too  soon. 

For  housework  led  her  its  weary  round  — 
Her  feet  were  tethered,  her  hands  were  bound. 

And  children  came  with  their  shrill  demands, 
And  fettered  closer  her  burdened  hands. 

In  her  husband's  house  she  came  to  be 
A  servant  in  all  but  salary. 

All  her  days,  whether  foul  or  fair, 
Were  endless  circles  of  work  and  care ; 

And  half  her  nights  —  as  up  and  down 
She  walked  the  floor  in  her  dressing-gown, 

Hushing  an  ailing  infant's  screams, 
Lest  it  should  break  its  father's  dreams; 

Or  coaxed  and  doctored  a  sobbing  child, 
By  the  pangs  of  ear-ache  driven  wild  — 


288  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Were  seasons  of  wakeful,  nervous  dread  — 
So  if  at  last  o'er  her  achiug  head 

The  angel  of  slumber  chanced  to  stoop, 
lie  brought  her  visions  of  mumps  or  croup; 

And  she  rose  unrested,  and  went  once  more 
Through  the  dull  routine  of  the  day  before. 

Week  by  week  did  she  drudge  and  toil 
And  stew  and  pickle,  and  roast  and  boil, 

And  wash  the  dishes,  and  rub  the  knives  — 
The  lofty  mission  of  duteous  wives  — 

And  scrub,  and  iron,  and  sweep,  and  cook, 
Her  only  reading  a  recipe-book, — 

And  bathe  the  children,  and  brush  their  locks, 
J3utton  their  aprons  and  pin  their  frocks, 

And  patch  old  garments,  and  darn  and  mend  — 
Oh!  weary  worry  that  has  no  end! 

She  lost  her  airy  and  sportive  ways, 
The  pretty  charm  of  her  girlish  days  — 

For  how  can  a  playful  fancy  rove 

When  one  is  chained  to  a  cooking-stove  ? 

Her  face  was  old  ere  she  reached  her  prime, 
Faded  and  care-worn  before  its  time. 

Sometimes  would  her  well-kept  husband  look 
Up  from  the  page  of  his  paper  or  book, 

And  note  how  the  bloom  had  left  her  face, 
And  a  pallid  thinness  won  its  place  — 


THE  SEVENTH  TRIANGULAR.  289 

How  gray  had  mixed  with  her  locks  of  brown, 
And  her  forehead  gained  a  growing  frown, 

And  say,  "  She  is  ugly,  I  declare  — 
I  wonder  I  ever  could  think  her  fair!  " 

Season  by  season,  year  by  year, 

Did  she  follow  the  round  of  "  woman's  sphere," 

Nor  vexed  her  husband's  days  or  nights, 
By  any  mention  of  woman's  rights, 

Till  she  did  at  last  —  too  sorely  tried  — 
Her  life's  one  selfish  deed  — she  died. 

Proud  and  happy  and  quite  content 

With  the  slavish  way  her  days  were  spent  ? 

Feeling,  of  course,  that  her  life  was  lost 
Nobly,  in  saving  a  servant's  cost  ? 

Once,  he  fancied,  her  dim  ghost  spoke 
Out  of  its  cloud  of  kitchen  smoke  — 

"  Why  did  I  leave  my  girlish  life 
To  be  a  dowdy  and  drudging  wife  ? 

"  I  might  have  followed  my  tasteful  trade, 
And  lived  a  happy  and  free  old  maid  — 

"  Or  taught  a  school,  as  I  had  before, 
Or  been  a  clerk  in  a  dry-goods  store  — 

"  Or  reigned  a  trim,  white-handed  queen, 
Over  a  dutiful  sewing-machine  — 

"  And  earned  my  living,  and  some  small  praise, 
In  any  one  of  these  easier  ways. 

13 


290  THE   THIANGULAK,   SOCIETY. 

"  No  other  servants  than  wives,  I  think, 
Work  for  nothing  but  food  and  drink, 

"  A  prisoning  '  home '  like  this  I  know, 
And  a  semi-annual  calico. 

"  No  other  employer,  dame  or  man, 
Makes  life  so  hard  as  a  husband  can. 

"  Ah,  me  !  what  curses  are  on  his  head 
Who  wooes  a  woman  and  does  not  wed! 

"  O  mourning  damsels,  who  pine  and  cry 
For  fickle  lovers,  who  vow  and  fly, 

"  Heal  your  heart-aches,  and  soothe  your  woes 
With  the  hard-earned  wisdom  of  one  who  knows : 

"  Small  reason  have  you  to  blame  or  rue 
The  lover  who  does  not  marry  you! 

"Ah!  of  all  sad  thoughts  of  women  or  men 
The  saddest  is  this,  '  It  need  n^t  have  been! ' : 

"Well,  I  must  say  Bob  makes  the  drollest  selec 
tions  —  for  a  boy,"  said  his  sister. 

"  Well,  I  found  it  in  a  New  York  daily,"  said  Bob. 
"  And  I  don't  like  the  namby-pamby  things  that  most 
people  write  for  boys,  any  way,  and  I  get  as  far  from 
them  as  I  can,  in  my  selections." 

"You  certainly  kept  a  safe  distance  there,"  ob 
served  his  mother.  "And  I  'm  afraid  there  's  a  good 
deal  more  truth  than  poetry  in  what  you  read.  Now 
hear  this  little  song.  It  is  set  to  an  old  tune  called 
*  The  Downhill  of  Life.'" 


THE   SEVENTH  TKIANGTJLAK.  291 

TO-MORROW. 

Oh,  when  shall  we  welcome  that  era  of  glory 

Foreshadowed  since  ages  of  old, 
That  season  so  fondly  in  vision  and  story 

By  prophet  and  siren  foretold  ? 
Our  hearts,  when  with  gloomy  forebodings  grown  cold, 

New  hope  from  the  prophecy  borrow, 
For  pain  shall  be  solaced  and  grief  be  consoled, 

And  life  be  enjoyment — to-morrow  I 
To-morrow !  —  to-morrow ! 

Hope's  burden  is  ever  "  To-morrow!  " 

That  wonderful  dawning,  oh,  when  shall  we  know  it? 

Which  dreamers  have  looked  for  so  long  ? 
That  jubilee  morning  by  preacher  and  poet 

So  lauded  in  sermon  and  song  ? 
When  labor  and  care,  with  their  wearisome  throng, 

Shall  vanish  with  trouble  and  sorrow, 
When  love  shall  reign  ruler,  and  right  shall  be  strong, 

And  youth  be  immortal  —  to-morrow! 
To-morrow !  —  to-morrow ! 

Hope's  burden  is  ever  "  To-morrow!  " 

"  That  would  sing  well,  because  it  has  o  in  it  so 
many  times,"  said  Brunette.  "And  speaking  of  to 
morrow  reminds  me  that  it  is  bed-time," 


XXY1. 

TROUBLE  WITH  TYPE. 

"  MOTHER,"  said  Brunette,  producing  as  usual  a 
crumple  of  paper  from  her  pocket,  "  I  have  some  rid 
dles  for  you,  and  you  must  guess  every  one." 

"Riddles?  where  did  you  find  them?"  asked  her 
mother. 

"  O,  in  the  proof,  for  the  last  few  weeks,"  responded 
Brunette,  "  there  has  been  a  sort  of  epidemic  of  blun 
ders  lately.  For  instance  — '  Chili's  arms  and  feet 
will  at  last  have  a  chance  to  show  their  mettle.' 
What  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"I  give  it  up,"  said  the  mother. 

" It  means  army  and  fleet"  said  Brunette.  "  And 
here,  immediately  following  an  article  on  trichinaB,  is 
the  statement  that  New  York  is  to  be  congratulated 
on  a  lot  of  new  animals  in  the  pork." 

"Well,  perhaps  that  means  the  park,"  said  the 
mother.  "  I  saw  a  telegram  in  the  paper,  that  was 
dated  at  New  Pork,  the  other  day.  At  first  I  thought 
it  meant  Cincinnati,"  said  she,  musingly. 

"Very  well,"  said  Brunette.  "Now  how  about 
this  — '  The  children  sat  stringing  easy-chairs  for 
necklaces.' " 

"Well,  I  really  can't  interpret  that,"  replied  her 
292 


TROUBLE  WITH  TYPE.  293 

mother.  "  I  can't  think  of  anything  that  would  make 
sense  of  it." 

"  They  were  only  stringing  daisy-chains,"  said  Bru 
nette.  "  And  the  other  day,  in  the  advertising  col 
umns,  somebody  wanted  to  dispose  of  a  valuable 
grinning  dog." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  said  Bob,  heartily ;  "  I  think  if  I 
had  a  grinning  dog  I  should  want  to  sell  it.  Fond  as 
I  am  of  pets,  I  never  thought  I  should  like  to  own  a 
Cheshire  cat." 

"But  this  meant  a  gunning  dog,"  explained  Bru 
nette. 

"  I  did  n't  know  that  dogs  ever  went  gunning,"  said 
Bob,  "  and  I  should  think  that  kind  of  dog  would  be 
more  dangerous  than  the  other." 

"  Either  would  be  unpleasant,"  said  the  mother, 
from  the  depths  of  the  Boston  rocker,  "  and  each  for 
a  different  reason.  A  gun  is  objectionable  because  it 
sometimes  goes  off  unexpectedly  —  a  grin,  because  it 
never  goes  off  at  all.  Nothing  is  so  tiresome  as  a 
chronic  smile." 

"  There  is  no  danger  that  I  shall  acquire  one,  while 
I  am  represented  as  stating  to  the  world  that  at  a  late 
masked  ball,  several  persons  were  dressed  like  pea 
nuts,"  said  Brunette,  mournfully;  "or  that  the  cruelty 
agent  lately  overhauled  a  man  at  the  Cape  for  having 
a  starving  cow  in  his  brain.  Who  would  ever  guess 
that  I  wrote  'peasants'?  or  that  the  cow  was  in  the 
*  barn '  ?  And  when  I  gave  out,  in  good  plain  print, 
a  new  way  of  cooking  potatoes,  what  did  I  read? 


294  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

*  Slice  your  potatoes  into  a  dish  of  water,  piping  the 
same  day  in  a  towel ' !  " 

"  Piping  in  a  towel !  "  exclaimed  Bob,  "  what  does 
that  mean?" 

"The  copy  said,  * wiping  the  same  dry  in  a  towel,'" 
explained  his  aggrieved  sister.  "  And  when  it  is 
printed  that  Pope  Leo  was  drowned  in  the  Sistine 
chapel,  who  is  to  know  that  it  means  he  was '  crowned'  ? 
And  when  the  paper  gravely  announces  that  the 
friends  of  Colby  University  have  been  placed  in  the 
Portland  Safety  Deposit  vault  for  safe  keeping  —  " 

"Friends  are  very  precious  property,"  said  the 
mother,  with  an  air  of  conviction ;  "  but  I  should  call 
that  a  rash  way  of  trying  to  keep  them.  And  you 
can't  invest  them,  nor  put  them  out  at  interest,  nor 
frame  them  and  hang  them  up,  nor  —  " 

"  There  is  only  one  way,"  said  Brunette,  "  and  that 
is,  to  bury  them.  They  never  prove  false,  or  get  lost, 
after  that,  and  nobody  coaxes  them  away  from  you. 
But  what  about  this  culprit  that  was  *  launched  into 
spice'?" 

"  Perhaps  he  was  embalmed,"  suggested  the  mother ; 
"  but  probably  it  means  '  space.'  *  Launched  into  space ' 
is  always  the  reporter's  way  of  saying  that  a  man  was 
hanged." 

"  Here  's  another  bit  of  news,"  said  Brunette,  read 
ing.  " '  General  Howard  telegraphed  to  General  Sher 
idan  some  days  ago,  a  long  report  covering  his  cam 
paign  against  the  NQZ  Perces.  But  instead  of  recog 
nizing  it,  Sheridan  judge-whaled  it  on  the  ground  that 


TKOUBLE   WITH   TYPE.  295 

no  officer  except  McDowell  was  entitled  to  telegraph 
reports.' " 

"  I  can  never  guess  what  '  judge-whaled '  means," 
said  the  mother,  after  a  puzzled  pause.  "  I  can't  think 
of  any  English  word  that  resembles  it  in  any  wise. 
What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  Pigeon-holed,"  replied  Brunette,  sadly ;  "  and 
though  you  laugh,  it  does  n't  seem  funny  to  me. 
And  here  it  tells  of  some  contractor  who  has  made 
some  '  straw  beds  for  carrying  the  mails.'  " 

The  mother  laughed  again.  "  That 's  almost  equal 
to  the  contract  for  furnishing  the  army  with  umbrel 
las,"  she  said.  "  It  means  straw  bids,  of  course." 

"And  verse  doesn't  fare  much  better,"  went  on 
Brunette.  "  Here  are  Logan's  sweet  old  lines  to  the 
cuckoo,  saying  — 

'  Now  heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 
And  toads  thy  welcome  sing.'  " 

"Any  way,  toads  do  sing  in  the  spring  —  or  frogs," 
amended  Bob,  catching  a  glint  from  his  sister's  eye  ; 
but  at  once  recovering  his  assurance,  he  said,  "  Tree- 
toads  sing,  anyhow.  And  there  's  no  sense  in  saying 
that  the  woods  sing,  or  in  calling  them  a  'rural 
seat.'  What  does  a  cuckoo,  or  any  other  bird,  want 
with  a  seat,  I  wonder?  I  just  think  that  poem  is  as 
nonsensical  as  —  as  some  of  yours,"  he  ended,  in  a 
lower  voice. 

"  Very  well,"  assented  Brunette ;  "  and  in  one  of 
mine,  when  I  said  '  Your  loving  fingers  seek  for  mine,' 
it  appeared  l  Four  loving  fingers.'  " 


296  THE   TRIANGULAK   SOCIETY. 

"Wonder  what  became  of  the  thumb?"  queried 
Bob. 

"Ask  the  intelligent  compositor,"  said  Brunette. 
"And  in  the  article  I  wrote  about  an  economical 
cook,  what  did  he  mean  by  saying  '  She  used  to  chew 
the  left-over  potatoes  and  cold  meat  into  new  and  pal 
atable  forms'?  ask  him  that"  added  she,  sharply.  "  I 
believe  they  do  these  things  on  purpose,  sometimes. 
For  instance :  4  The  thief  stole  an  overcoat,  and  left 
for  pants  unknown.'  Now  do  you  believe  that  was 
accidental  ?  " 

"  There  does  seem  .to  be  some  method  in  such  mad 
ness  as  that,"  mildly  remarked  the  mother,  "  but  what 
was  meant  for  '  chew '  ?  " 

"  Why, c  charm,'  of*  course,"  replied  Brunette.  "  And 
here  — k  Twenty  years  since,  when  I  was  a  child  or 
two  '  —  is  n't  that  rational  ?  All  by  putting  it  «  or  ' 
instead  of,  as  it  should  have  been,  '  of.'  And  again, 
in  a  sentimental  story, '  He  had  had  but  one  great 
love  in  his  life ;  at  present  he  had  nine.' ': 

"That  must  allude  to  ex-Congressman  Cannon," 
mused  the  mother. 

"No,"  answered  Brunette,  "it  should  read  none. 
One  letter  makes  all  that  difference.  And  what  do 
you  think  of  a  '  veteran  actor  who  is  biled  for  a  short 
engagement '  ?  " 

"  Nobody  whose  orthography  is  based  on  a  good 
solid  sub-structure  of  spelling-book,  could  mistake 
that,"  said  the  mother. 

"  When  you  have  been  in  a  newspaper  office  as  long 


TROUBLE   WITH   TYPE.  297 

as  I  have,  mother,"  uttered  Brunette,  with  deep  feel 
ing,  "you  will  have  discovered  that  people  can  make 
a  very  good  appearance  in  this  world,  and  dress  well, 
and  talk  eloquently,  who  yet  are  not  able  to  spell 
properly.  I  could  tell  you  things  about  that,  now, 
which  would  make  your  hair  stand  up,"  she  continued, 
with  an  air  of  awful  conviction. 

"Don't,  Brunette,"  pleaded  her  mother,  involunta 
rily  smoothing  down  her  own  obedient  locks. 

"  Does  people's  hair  rise,  really,  when  they  are  sur 
prised  ?  "  asked  Bob,  "  and  was  that  how  Absalom's 
hair  happened  to  catch  in  the  tree,  in  the  Bible 
picture?  No  wonder  he  was  surprised  when  the 
donkey  went  out  from  under  him.  I  never  saw  a 
donkey  go  so  fast  as  that.  When  I  tried  to  ride  on  a 
donkey,  I  never  could  get  him  even  to  trot.  It 
must  have  been  a  different  kind  of  donkey  that  they 
had  in  old  times,"  he  went  on  dreamily,  "  now-a-days 
donkeys  never  go  fast  enough  to  leave  their  riders  in 
the  air." 

"Who  said  he  was  riding  on  a  donkey?"  asked 
Brunette,  turning  a  flash  upon  him;  "and  do  you 
suppose  the  donkey,  if  it  was  one,  went  out  from 
under  Absalom  before  his  hair  caught  and  held  him  ? 
What  a  boy  !  " 

"  Well,  it  was  a  donkey  in  the  picture,"  said  hum 
bled  Bob,  trying  to  pluck  up  a  spirit,  and  then  sud 
denly  collapsing  to  —  "or  a  rabbit,  so  now.  I  know 
it  had  awful  ears,  any  way." 

Brunette  looked  at  him  reproachfully,  and  read  from 
13* 


298  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

her  notes,  "  The  prisoner  held  up  his  hand,  during  the 
reading  ot  the  indictment,  which  contained  three 
cents." 

"  Perhaps  the  cents  were  for  the  lawyers,"  ventured 
Bob. 

"  Perhaps  the  word  cents  means  counts"  said  Bru 
nette.  "  But  what  does  *  children  of  foreign  percent 
age  '  mean  ?  "  asked  she,  addressing  her  mother. 

"  Well,  perhaps  —  parentage  ?  " 

"And  what  does  this  mean,  about  Leigh  Hunt, 
when  it  says  that  he  published  law  poems  against  his 
friends  ?  "  demanded  Brunette,  with  asperity. 

"  I  can't  guess,"  said  her  mother,  "  ask  me  something 
easier." 

"  Lampoons,"  said  Brunette;  "and  next,  in  speak 
ing  of  a  popular  volume,  it  says  here  that  '  the  editors 
of  the  book  were  sold  almost  immediately  in  Paris,' 
instead  of  *  three  editions.'  And  in  New  York  they 
have  been  exhibiting  '  a  portrait  of  a  lady  which  is 
evidently  the  work  of  one  of  the  old  mashers.'  I 
notice,  too,  that  Lord  Bacon  was  insolent  when  he 
died ;  that  a  ship  from  Liverpool  was  badly  buttered 
by  a  storm ;  that  there  has  been  a  charge  of  revenue 
in  a  prominent  law-case,  instead  of  a  change  of  venue  ; 
that  a  man  in  Saccarappa  lately  lost  a  voluble  horse ; 
and  that  after  a  recent-  robbery  in  this  town,  the  thief 
was  arrested  on  the  train  with  several  travelling 
bugs-" 

"Most  likely  roaches,"  commented  Bob,  "they 
travel  fastest  of  any  kind  I  know." 


TROUBLE   WITH   TYPE.  299 

"And  that  the  roots  of  some  strange  vegetable 
lately  sent  to  the  Natural  History  Society,  looked 
like  the  dried  feelings  of  a  potato,"  went  on  Brunette 
desperately.  "  But  if  I  misspell  a  word  purposely,  if 
the  whole  gist  and  meaning  of  a  sentence  depend  on 
such  misspelling,  no  critic  has  a  nose  so  sharp  to  hunt 
it  out,  and  a  hand  so  determined  to  correct  it,  as  this 
same  avenging  sprite,  the  compositor.  When,  the 
other  day  it  came  out  in  a  New  York  law-suit,  that  a 
wealthy  man  of  that  city  had  been  long  in  the  habit 
of  keeping  large  amounts  of  money  in  an  old  boot  in 
his  cellar,  as  he  had  no  faith  in  banks,  and  I  suggested 
that  it  was  because  he  thought  corporations  had  no 
soles,  with  what  merciless  accuracy  did  the  rebuking 
type-setter  change  it  to  *  souls ' !  pitying  me,  doubt 
less,  all  the  while,  for  my  ignorance  about  so  easy  a 
word." 

"Of  course,  everybody  delights  to  catch  a  critic 
napping.  It  must  be  especially  gratifying  to  a  com 
positor  who  spends  so  much  of  his  valuable  time  in 
picking  out  his  own  mistakes  at  the  instance  of  editor 
or  proof-reader,  to  find  them  guilty  of  a  blunder.  I 
think  if  I  were  a  type-setter,  I  should  really  enjoy  it." 

"  There  's  no  question  about  it.  The  other  day,  in 
copying  an  item  about  the  multitudes  of  fish  said  to 
be  dying  in  the  Passaic  river,  supposed  to  have  been 
killed  by  the  refuse  from  the  Paterson  dye-works,  I 
unnecessarily  remarked  that  *  fish  are  not  so  unsym 
pathetic,  after  all,  since,  though  cold-blooded  and 
generally  considered  devoid  of  affection,  they  seem  in 


300  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

this  case  to  be  dying  by  thousands,  simply  because 
their  human  friends  on  shore  have  dyed,'  —  and  the 
sentence  was  made  not  only  pointless,  but  false,  by 
the  correction  of  the  last  word  to  'died.' " 

"  People  who  make  puns  deserve  punishment ; 
you  '11  get  no  sympathy  from  me  in  that  grievance," 
said  the  hard-hearted  parent. 

"  Then  I  '11  recite  a  more  agonizing  wrong.  If  you 
had  gravely  written  out  the  account  of  a  slight  acci 
dent,  without  desiring  in  the  least  to  be  funny,  how 
would  you  like  to  appear  in  print  as  stating  that  an 
estimable  citizen  had  fallen  on  the  ice  and  '  badly 
sprained  his  uncle '  ?  What  would  you  say  to  that, 
now?" 

"  Well,"  laughed  the  mother,  "  I  suppose  I  should 
explain  it  by  saying  that  it  must  have  happened  in 
consequence  of  the  old  gentleman's  relative  position." 

"Very  good ;  and  how  would  you  like  to  be  under 
stood  as  saying  that  a  certain  large  new  business  block 
in  town,  lately  finished,  '  is  now  entirely  occupied  by 
ten  ants ' ?  " 

"  I  should  expect  to  be  sued  for  libel.  But  what  a 
droll  contradiction !  In  the  very  act  of  saying  that 
the  building  is  entirely  occupied,  it  proves  that  there 
are  too  many  spaces  between  the  tenants  J  " 

"  And  how  would  it  affect  you  to  be  credited  with 
saying,  in  writing  up  the  story  of  a  destructive  fire, 
where  several  acts  of  great  bravery  were  performed, 
that  a  well-known  and  excellent  citizen  was  the  nero 
of  the  occasion  ?  " 


TROUBLE   WITH  TYPE.  301 

"  People  would  suppose  he  did  the  fiddling,"  said 
Bob.  "  You  need  n't  sparkle  at  me,  Brunette,  why 
should  n't  he  accompany  the  hose  company,  who 
always  play  on  the  flames  ?  " 

"  And  on  the  occasion  of  a  tremendous  snow-storm," 
went  on  Brunette,  ignoring  his  remark,  "  a  snow 
storm  that  buried  everything,  and  made  travel  tem 
porarily  impossible,  the  paper  stated  gravely,  '  Up 
to  the  time  of  going  to  press,  there  have  been  one 
hundred  and  ten  trains  on  the  Ogdensburgh,  to-day.' 
But  that  was  easily  explained.  The  copy  said  '  no 
trains,'  the  word  '  no '  being  slightly  blurred,  so  that 
it  appeared  to  the  preoccupied  compositor,  to  be  two 
straight  lines  and  a  cipher,  —  110  —  which  he  spelled 
out.  I  wish  he  always  had  as  good  an  excuse." 

"I  was  reading  lately,"  said  the  mother,  "in  an 
article  on  the  weather,  where  it  spoke  of  dry  winds  as 
4  air  currants  which  have  lost  their  humidity.'  " 

"  Dried  currants,  then,"  said  Brunette.  "  Arid  not 
long  ago,  in  quoting  from  Macready's  American  diary, 
where  he  wrote  a  melancholy  line  about  his  failure  in 
a  city  in  New  York  —  *  Played  to  a  poor  house.  O 
Buffalo  ! '  it  was  changed  to  '  Played  to  a  poor-house, 
one  buffalo.'  But  one  of  the  worst  things  in  this  line 
which  has  chanced  lately,  occurred  in  a  clergyman's 
recital  of  his  remonstrances  with  a  poor  woman  of 
his  parish,  who  spent  her  money  foolishly.  The 
patient  pastor  adjured  her  to  buy  food  instead  of 
finery.  '  Let  me  beg  you,  madam,  for  your  husband's 
sake,'  said  he,  according  to  his  own  story.  But  the 


302  THE  TEIANGULAH   SOCIETY. 

compositor  knew  better,  and  in  the  proof,  the  sentence 
appeared,  '  Let  me  hug  you,  madam,  for  your  hus 
band's  sake.' " 

"  Rather  a  singular  proposition  to  make,  out  of 
regard  to  a  husband,"  observed  the  mamma,  "  almost 
equal  to  kissing  a  dead  soldier-boy  for  his  mother, 
when  his  mother  could  never  by  any  possibility  know 
anything  about  it." 

"  And  here  a  man  is  represented  as  complimenting 
his  friend  by  calling  him  a  '  turnip '  instead  of  a 
trump ;  and  here  we  are  informed  that  the  congress 
ional  committee  on  shipbuilding  met  yesterday  and 
agreed  upon  a  ball,  instead  of  a  bill,  which  would 
have  been  much  more  business-like  ;  and  that  there  is 
a  strong  probability  that  the  'suffering'  will  be 
extended  in  England,  which  seems  needless ;  that  Rev. 
Mr.  So-and-so,  « a  well  Congregational  preacher,'  lately 
died  in  Bangor — " 

"  If  he  was  well,  how  did  he  nappen  to  die  ? " 
asked  inquisitive  Bob. 

"  It  ought  to  be  '  well-known,' "  said  Brunette,  with 
out  raising  her  eyes  from  her  list.  "  And  here  it 
speaks  of  an  Augusta  man,  recently  deceased,  who 
*  was  a  man  of  strict  integrity  after  the  great  fire  of 
1865.'" 

"  Do  you  suppose  the  fire  scared  him  into  being  an 
honest  man?"  asked  Bob,  who  liked  to  understand 
things. 

"I  doubt  it,"  replied  the  mother.  "Such  a  refor 
mation  would  n't  last  long.  I  think  there  should  have 


.    TEOUBLE   WITH   TYPE.  303 

been  a  period  after  '  integrity,'  'and  the  rest  is  part  of 
another  sentence." 

"Right,  as  usual,"  said  Brunette.  "And  here  we 
read  that  an  excursion  party  had  their  camp  in  <  a 
beautiful  grave  ' ;  and  of  something  that  happened  to 
a  New  York  man  just  as  he  was  *  about  to  lease  the 
city.'" 

"  I  've  heard  of  a  rich  countryman  who  went  to 
New  York  intending  to  buy  the  city  if  he  liked  it," 
mused  the  mother,  "  but  I  never  heard  of  leasing  it. 
It  must  mean  '  leave.'  " 

"Right  again;  and  here  somebody  won  4a  prize 
cub '  at  a  cattle  show  —  " 

"  I  noticed  plenty  of  cubs  at  the  Fair  grounds,  when 
I  was  there,"  said  the  mother,  "  but  I  did  n't  sup 
pose  they  were  considered  prizes.  I  'm  glad  I  did  n't 
compete." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Brunette,  heartily.  "  And  'here  it 
speaks  of  the  Russian  '  changed  officials,'  instead  of 
'  charge  d'  affaires ' ;  and  says  that  a  prominent  citi 
zen  cannot  long  survive,  as  he  is  l  singing  fast.'  " 

"Perhaps  he  is  like  a  swan,  and  sings  before  he 
dies,"  suggested  Bob. 

"  I  think  it  means  '  sinking,' "  said  the  practical 
mother.  "  I  read  the  other  day,  that  a  popular  physi 
cian  had  been  elected  '  professor  of  singing '  in  a 
medical  college ;  but  there  it  meant « surgery.' " 

"  And  it  tells  here,"  pursued  Brunette,  "  about  a 
man  who  made  a  fortune  in  college  groves  in  Florida." 

"  Groves  of  Academe,"  murmured  the  mother, 
"  what  does  that  mean  ?  " 


304  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

"  O,  orange  groves,"  replied  Brunette.  "  And  here 
it  states  that c  the  well-known  poem  describing  Sheri 
dan's  ride  to  Winchester,  is  said  by  a  friend  of  the 
hatter  to  have  become  the  bane  of  his  life.'  " 

"  Why,  Sheridan  was  n't  a  hatter,"  said  Bob. 

"Neither  was  Buchanan  Read,  who  wrote  the 
poem,"  said  the  mother.  "  In  order  to  know  who  was 
a  friend  of  the  hatter,  we  must  first  find  out  who  the 
hatter  wTas." 

"  There  was  n't  any  hatter,  excepting  in  the  ingen 
ious  brain  of  the  intelligent  compositor,"  explained 
Brunette.  "  It  means  *  a  friend  of  the  latter.'  And 
here  next  it  speaks  of  somebody  who  was  dressed  in 
a  *  tail-cart,'  instead  of  a  tail-coat.  How  provoking  !  " 

"From  your  indignation,  I  judge  that  the  last  two 
blunders  were  in  some  of  your  own  articles,"  said  the 
observant  mother. 

"Yes,  they  were,"  replied  Brunette,  "and  I  can 
show  you  a  worse  one.  I  quoted  the  other  day,  a 
poem  which  had  in  it  the  line  'How  patiently  you 
trod  the  weary  way,'  and  now  how  do  you  guess  the 
whole  line  was  made  absurd  by  the  change  of  a  single 

w  O  O 

letter?  By  just  altering  the  word  '  trod'  to  '  trot,'  " 
said  poor  Brunette,  crimsoning  with  vexation,  "and 
you  sit  there  and  laugh  at  my  sufferings !  For  my 
part,  I  don't  see  anything  funny  in  a  thing  which 
makes  one  ridiculous  and  miserable." 

"  I  noticed  the  other  day  in  a  New  Hampshire 
paper,"  said  the  mother,  trying  to  divert  Brunette's 
mind  from  her  woes,  "  that  on  Decoration  day  at  Bel- 
mont,  in  that  State, '  the  Belmont  cornet  band  and  a 


TROUBLE   WITH   TYPE.  305 

drum  corpse  from  Laconia  played  appropriate  airs  in 
an  inspiriting  manner.' " 

"  It  must  have  been  a  cheerful  occasion,"  said  Bru 
nette.  "  I  don't  know  whether  the  dead  march  in 
Saul,  or  'Down  among  the  dead  men,'  would  be  con 
sidered  an  appropriate  air  for  a  drum  corpse." 

"  I  suppose  the  appropriate  heirs  of  a  drum  corpse 
would  be  named  in  his  will,"  said  Bob,  gravely.  "  But 
I  would  like  to  know  what  this  paper  means  when  it 
declares  that  agriculture  is  the  '  art  of  ants.'  " 

The  mother  meditated.  "Moles  have  often  been 
called  agriculturists,  and  there  is  a  tropical  bird  that 
makes  gardens,  but  ants  have  not  heretofore  been 
accused  of  farming,  —  excepting  that  some  of  them  are 
said  to  keep  dairies,"  she  said,  presently. 

Brunette  took  the  paper  from  Bob's  hand,  looked  at 
the  item,  and  smiled  as  she  said,  "  Well,  as  the  paper 
goes  on  to  say  that  without  agriculture,  '  man  would 
be  a  savage,  and  the  world  a  wilderness,'  one  may  con 
clude  that  it  meant  to  say  '  the  art  of  arts.'  " 

"  That  reminds  me,"  said  the  mother,  "  that  the 
other  day,  in  a  newspaper,  I  saw  the  art  of  printing 
alluded  to  as  f  the  art  preservative  of  all  ants.'  v 

"  According  to  Brunette's  idea  that  a  printing-office 
is  a  favorite  haunt  of  cockroaches,"  said  Bob,  "  it 
seems  to  me  that  they  made  a  mistake  in  the  name  of 
the  insect,  that  's  all." 

"  Here,"  said  Brunette,  "  is  an  item  which  tells  how 
a  veteran  farmer  outwits  the  potato-rot.  It  says,  '  he 
plants  in  the  latter  part  of  April  or  early  in  May,  and 


306  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

when  six  inches  high  he  uses  plaster.  When  blossom 
ing,  he  mixes  two  parts  plaster  with  one  part  fine  salt, 
and  puts  a  teaspoonful  of  the  compound  in  each  hill.' 
To  persons  unaccustomed  to  farming,  it  would  seem 
that  it  is  rather  early  for  a  farmer  to  begin  agricul 
tural  pursuits  '  when  six  inches  high.'  " 

"  But,"  said  the  mother,  "  it  seems  to  me  that  even 
this  is  not  so  surprising  as  his  course  '  when  blossom 
ing.'  When  may  the  average  farmer  be  considered 
in  blossom  ?  Does  he  bloom  like  the  dandelion,  early 
in  the  spring  of  life,  or  wait,  like  the  great  American 
Aloe,  a  hundred  years  ?  " 

"  That 's  a  question  for  the  next  meeting  of  the 
State  grange,"  said  Brunette.  "  But  here  's  an  item 
which  tells  how  a  silly  young  man  killed  his  sister  with 
a  gun  which  he  supposed  to  be  unloaded;  and  the 
chronicler  adds  that  '  before  guns  are  put  away,  they 
should  always  be  discouraged.'  " 

"  I  suppose  he  meant  '  discharged,' "  said  Bob. 
"  But  that  does  n't  always  make  things  safe,"  he  added, 
oracularly. 

"  I  don't  see  how  a  discharged  gun  can  help  being 
safe,"  said  Brunette. 

"  Well,  everything  is  n't,"  replied  Bob,  positively. 
"  In  this  very  paper,  it  tells  of  an  Ohio  man  who  was 
killed  by  a  discharged  negro  !  " 


XXVII. 

IN   THE   GARDEN. 

IT  was  in  the  last  of  May,  and  an  exceptionally 
lovely  morning.  All  the  family  were  in  the  garden ; 
the  mother,  in  a  white  sunbonnet,  was  trying  to  cut 
the  dead  branches  from  a  climbing  rose-bush  ;  Bru 
nette,  with  her  hat  covered  with  cobwebs,  from  a 
recent  rummage  in  the  cellar  after  the  last  summer's 
hoe,  stood  trying  to  tighten  it  on  the  handle  by  pound 
ing  it  with  a  half-brick ;  and  Bob,  with  no  head  cover 
ing  but  his  yellow  hair,  was  kneeling  beside  his  special 
flower-bed,  dibbling  little  holes,  in  a  row,  with  a  slate- 
pencil.  The  air  was  full  of  the  very  spirit  of  summer, 
and  sweet  with  the  odor  of  new  fruit  blossoms,  and 
springing  grass,  and  the  wild,  woodsy,  delicious  smell 
of  freshly-dug  earth,  while  the  birds  seemed  holding  a 
very  jubilee  of  rejoicing  song. 

"  How  lovely  it  is,"  said  Brunette,  pausing  in  her 
labor  to  pet  her  pounded  thumb,  "  and  how  many  fra 
grances  there  are !  I  smell  the  moist  ground,  and  the 
fresh  sods,  and  the  buds  on  the  trees,  yes,  the  very 
bark  of  the  twigs  and  trunks,  I  believe,  and  beside 
all  these,  and  the  scent  of  the  fruit-blossoms,  there  is 
still  something  nameless,  and  sweeter  than  any  or  all. 
I  wonder  if  it  is  the  breath  of  bird-songs  ?  How 

307 


308  THE   TEI ANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

much  finer  is  that  red-breast's  carol  than  the  bubble- 
and-squeak  of  the  ordinary  caged  canary-bird  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  heard  of  smelling  the 
breath  of  bird-songs,"  said  the  mother,  picking  a  cruel 
thorn  out  of  her  fore-finger,  "  but  —  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  queried  Bob.  ';  I  remember  a  great 
while  ago,  when  I  went  into  Mrs.  Brown's,  and  the 
girls'  music-teacher  called  there  with  his  wife  ;  he  was 
a  German.  I  believe,  and  I  guess  she  was  a  Gerwoman  ; 
anyhow,  she  was  real  kind,  and  took  me  on  her  lap,  as 
she  sat  close  by  him  ;  and  he  sang  a  song  for  the  girls, 
and  I  remember  to  this  day  how  Ms  voice  smelt  of 
garlic." 

"Your  testimony  is  on  my  side,"  said  Brunette, 
dropping  the  hoe,  after  another  clip  at  her  thumb  with 
the  brick,  "  but  what  on  earth  are  you  making  those 
holes  for?" 

"These?  these  are  bachelor's  button-holes,"  said 
Bob,  "  to  put  bachelor's  button  seeds  in,  you  know. 
It  says  on  the  paper,  '  Centaurea  cyanus?  but  I  never 
can  remember  that,  and  I  like  the  name  of  bachelor's 
buttons  better.  Mother  says  they  are  called  so 
because  in  foreign  countries,  where  they  grow  in  the 
wheat,  like  weeds,  the  young  men  wear  bunches  of 
them  in  their  coats  when  they  go  to  market  or  to  a 
fair.  And  in  Germany  they  call  them  kaiser-blooms, 
because  the  old  emperor  liked  them ;  and  I  've  heard 
them  called  thistle-pinks ;  they  have  names  enough," 
said  Bob,  preparing  to  plant  the  seeds. 

"  But  you  must  n't  plant  them  so  deep,  Bob,  they  '11 


IN    THE   GARDEN.  309 

never  come  up  if  you  do ;  at  least,  not  on  this  side  of 
the  globe.  I  presume  you  want  your  flowers  here,  and 
not  in  China?  These  holes  are  deep  enough  for 
sweet-peas ;  you  must  plant  them  deep,  or  else  they 
will  dry  up  under  the  hot  sun,  you  know." 

After  some  small  demur,  Bob  took  his  sister's 
advice,  and  planted  sweet-peas  in  his  "  bachelor's  but 
ton-holes,"  where  they  did  admirably,  flowering  pro 
fusely  during  the  summer,  a  circumstance  which  he 
ascribed  entirely  to  the  method  of  planting,  and  so 
set  down  in  his  garden  memoranda,  "  Always  to  plant 
sweet-peas  in  holes  made  with  a  slate-pencil." 

"Mother,"  said  he  presently,  "  do  oysters  grow  in 
gardens  ?  " 

"Certainly  not,  Bob,  how  can  you  ask  such  a 
question  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  read  in  Brunette's  paper,  the  other  night, 
about  oyster  beds ;  and  if  oysters  don't  grow  in  gar 
dens  in  this  country,  I  'm  sure  they  do  in  China, 
because  that  good-natured  woman  that  brings  home 
the  washing,  asked  me  yesterday  if  I  had  any  China 
oysters  in  my  garden ;  and  when  I  said  no,  she  told 
me  that  she  had  lots  of  'em,  and  would  give  me  some 
plants  if  I  'd  come  up  to  her  house.  And  it  tells 
about  oyster  plants  in  my  catalogue,  too." 

"Bob's  array  of  circumstantial  evidence  is  over 
whelming,"  said  Brunette,  "many  a  Salem  woman 
was  hanged  on  less." 

The  mother  laughed  outright,  although  a  falling 
branch  of  the  climbing  rose  had  clawed  off  her  sun- 


310  THE   TRIANGULAR    SOCIETY. 

bonnet,  and  tangled  itself  in  her  hair.  "  China  oys 
ters  ! "  said  she,  struggling  with  the  many-handed 
enemy,  "I  have  n't  thought  of  that  name  for  years, 
but  when  I  was  a  child,  it  was  common  enough.  But 
I  can't  unravel  Bob's  difficulty  until  I  get  out  of 
my  own.  Do  help  me,  Brunette.  I  am  in  a  worse 
plight  than  Absalom." 

"  I  believe,"  said  Brunette,  "  that  the  cheapest  way 
will  be  to  cut  your  hair  off  and  leave  it  in  the  rose 
bush  for  a  bird's  nest." 

But  after  a  season  of  diligent  work,  amid  groans 
and  laughter,  the  poor  mother  was  liberated,  with  her 
hair  quite  wild,  her  collar  torn,  her  hands  bleeding, 
and  her  cheek  badly  scratched. 

u  I  don't  want  to  be  disrespectful,"  said  Brunette, 
"but  if  Bob  were  in  that  condition, "I  should  say  he 
looked  like  the  survivor  of  a  cat-fight.  c  No  rose 
without  a  thorn,'  indeed!  If  you  should  count  the 
thorns  on  that  bloodthirsty  rose-bush,  and  divide  them 
by  the  number  of  roses  it  bears,  there  would  be 
thousands  of  thorns  to  every  rose  of  'em." 

"•  Now,  mother,"  urged  Bob,  "  tell  me  about  the 
China  oysters  before  you  forget  it." 

The  mother  had  seated  herself  on  the  doorstep,  and, 
with  sundry  little  touches  and  smoothings,  was  trying 
to  compose  her  ruffled  plumage,  very  much  after  the 
fashion  of  a  dishevelled  bird.  "The  name  means 
China-asters,"  she  said,  "  the  aster  being  supposed  to 
have  come  from  China.  The  old-fashioned  China- 
asters  were  single  flowers,  as  single  as  an  ox-eye  daisy, 


IN  THE  GAEDEN.  311 

but  of  various  colors,  with  a  yellow  middle.  Nowa 
days  most  asters  are  double,  and  nobody  credits  them 
to  China.  I  can't  see  how  '  aster '  was  ever  tortured 
into  '  oyster.'  But  I  remember  once  asking  a  market- 
woman  in  New  York,  the  name  of  a  plant  which  she 
had  for  sale,  and  she  surprised  me  by  saying  that  it 
was  the  'Road  to  Dan.'  I  was  a  long  time  in  discov 
ering  that  she  meant  'rhododendron.'  When  I  was  a 
child,  I  used  to  hear  the  heliotrope  mentioned  as 
4  heal-your-throat,'  and  from  that  name,  it  was  sup 
posed  by  some  people  to  possess  medical  virtues.  As 
for  '  oyster-plant,'  Bob,  that  's  a  kitchen  vegetable, 
something  like  a  parsnip ;  so  called  because  it  does  n't 
have  a  taste  at  all  like  oysters,  I  suppose." 

"  When  I  was  in  New  York,"  said  Brunette,  Avhose 
foreign  travels  had  only  extended  thus  far,  "  a  lady 
told  me  that  in  her  youth  she  used  to  hear  the  com 
mon  Rmlbeckia  hirta  of  the  fields,  called  the  '  three- 
lobed  Rebecca.'  How  do  you  suppose  that  came 
about?" 

"Who  can  guess?  There  's  no  accounting  for  the 
freaks  of  the  rural  imagination,  when  it  lets  itself 
loose  among  botanical  names.  Why  do  so  many 
persons  tell  about  '  cowcumbers,'  and  *  crambry  beans,' 
and  '  sparrow-grass  '  ?  And  worse  still  —  a  woman 
from  northern  New  York,  whom  I  knew  in  Wash 
ington,  happening  to  meet  me  one  day  when  I 
had  my  hands  full  of  May-flowers,  said  '  O  where  did 
you  get  those  pinstry  flowers  ?  '  When  I  expressed 
my  surprise  at  the  name,  she  said  she  had  always 
heard  them  called  '  pinstry-blossoms.'  After  much 


312  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

search,  I  found  out  that  she  meant  '  pinxter-blossoms,' 
or  '  pinkster,'  which,  in  the  locality  where  she  was 
born,  means  Whitsuntide;  the  Dutch  call  it  'ping- 
ster.'  It  is  a  sort  of  survival  of  the  old  Knickerbock 
ers,  I  fancy." 

"  Not  a  survival  of  the  fittest,"  said  Brunette ; 
"  there  's  no  name  so  sweet  as  May-flower  for  those 
blossoms.  I  don't  even  like  arbutus  so  well.  The 
name  'May-flower'  just  suits  them." 

"  And  now  I  'm  going  to  have  a  pillar  of  morning- 
glories,"  said  Bob.  "  Brunette,  won't  you  help  me 
set  up  this  long  bean-pole,  and  then  I  '11  have  strings 
from  the  top  of  it,  all  coming  down  in  a  circle,  like 
this,  and  the  morning-glories  will  run  up  —  " 

"  A  pillar,  indeed ! "  exclaimed  the  mother.  "  Bob, 
a  circle  of  vines  as  wide  as  that,  running  up  to  a 
point,  will  be  a  wigwam,  and  not  a  pillar." 

"  Well,  a  wigwarm  will  be  a  good  place  to  camp  out 
in,  when  there  comes  a  cool  night,"  said  Bob. 

"  I  think  the  nights  will  be  pretty  cool  before  your 
vines  reach  the  top  of  that  pole,"  ventured  his  sister ; 
"  and  your  pillar  will  take  up  half  your  room,  beside ; 
your  bed  is  no  place  for  that." 

"  Well,  ./should  think  a  bed  is  just  the  place  for  a 
pillar,"  persisted  Bob. 

"  I  accept  your  apology,  Bob,  but  how  on  earth  are 
you  going  to  get  up  to  the  top  of  this  pole  to  fasten 
your  strings  to  it  ?  " 

"  I  'm  going  to  have  gumption  enough  to  tie  the 
strings  on  first,"  said  Bob. 

"And  how  pretty   that  great  bean-pole  will  look, 


IN   THE  GAKDEN.  313 

stuck  up  here  in  the  door-yard  for  two  months,  while 
your  morning-glories  are  beginning  to  grow !  Like 
the  ghost  of  a  gigantic  umbrella,  with  white  twine  for 
ribs,"  said  Brunette.  "  And  when  people  pass  by  here 
after  dark,  they  will  think  it  is  a  phantom  camp  of  the 
aborigines.  Besides,  how  am  I  going  to  set  up  this 
great  pole  ?  You  ought  to  have  a  crow-bar." 

"What  do  I  want  of  a  crow-bar?"  asked  Bob, 
aghast.  "  Crows  never  come  here ;  there  's  nothing 
for  them  to  steal.  By  and  by,  I  suppose,  I  shall  have 
to  put  some  sort  of  scare-robin  out  by  my  strawberry- 
bed  ;  but  I  'm  not  afraid  of  crows." 

After  some  argument,  Bob  was  reasoned  out  of  his 
plan  for  a  morning-glory  pillar,  and  induced  to  plant 
his  seeds  close  to  the  house,  so  that  the  vines  would 
curtain  the  kitchen  window,  and  a  part  of  the  back 
area. 

"  It  lightens  house- work  wonderfully,  to  have  morn 
ing-glories  look  on  while  you  're  doing  it,"  said  the 
sentimental  mother.  "  They  even  lend  a  sort  of  gla 
mour  to  dish-washing.  House-work  would  not  be  the 
cramping,  belittling  drudgery  that  it  is  at  present,  if 
it  could  be  done,  like  ploughing  and  harvesting,  out- 
of-doors.  But  since  it  can't,  the  only  way  is  to  have 
a  little  of  out-of-doors  within  sight  of  the  kitchen." 

It  may  be  mentioned  that  the  morning-glories  grew 
so  rapidly  that  they  soon  curtained  the  window  com 
pletely,  and  multitudes  of  their  graceful  blossoms, 
pink,  white,  blue,  purple,  and  lavender-color,  looked  in 
every  morning.  Bob  declared  that  they  were  so  will- 
14 


314  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

ing  and  anxious  to  "  lend  a  glamour  "  that  they  grew 
through  the  lattice-work  into  the  area,  and  twined 
about  the  handle  of  the  broom,  and  the  gridiron,  and 
everything  else  that  happened  to  hang  in  the  vicinity. 

"  And  now  I  'in  going  to  plant  some  larkspurs,  and 
marvel-of-Peru,  and  scarlet  salvia,  and  zinnias,  and 
prince's  feather,  and  coreopsis,  and  gauze-flowers, — " 

"And  here  are  ever  so  many  more  seed-papers," 
said  Brunette,  investigating  Bob's  pan  of  packages, 
which  was  waiting  on  the  door-step.  "You  never 
can  plant  them  all  in  that  small  space  ;  you  '11  have  a 
perfect  jungle,  Bob.  Here  are  poppy-seeds,  and 
phlox,  and  flax,  and  mignonette,  and  candy-tuft,  and 
velvet  marigolds,  and  meteor  marigolds,  and  what 
not." 

"  I  can't  see  why  they  're  any  meatier  than  the 
other  sort,"  said  Bob,  busy  with  his  nasturtiums  and 
scarlet-runners;  "and  I  know  I  have  n't  room  enough 
to  plant  'em  all  in  regular  rows,  —  and  I  'm  pretty 
tired,  too ;  and  so  after  I  'vc  sowed  a  few  more  of  the 
prettiest,  I  'm  going  to  mix  the  rest  together,  and 
scatter  'em  all  about,  for  a  wild  garden ;  it  tells  all 
about  it  in  my  catalogue,  and  it  saves  lots  of  work." 

Brunette  said  it  must  have  been  a  very  indolent 
person  who  invented  the  plan  of  a  wild  garden.  "  A 
garden  of  wild  plants  and  flowers  would  be  delight 
ful,"  said  she,  "  but  a  garden  whose  wildness  consists 
simply  in  looking  as  though  it  were  planted  by  a 
maniac,  is  another  thing." 

"  It  's  lots  of  other  things,"  said  Bob,  who  by  this 


IN   THE   GAKDEN.  315 

time  was  recklessly  emptying  all  his  remaining  seed- 
papers  into  the  pan  together,  "  only  I  can't  put  in  these 
balloon-vine  seeds,  because  if  I  do,  they  '11  twist  about 
everything  else,  and  go  squandering  all  over  the  walk." 

Bob  had  a  habit  of  wrenching  words  away  from 
their  popular  meaning,  and  forcing  them  into  aiien 
service,  which  his  sister  often  found  very  entertaining. 

"  Bob,"  she  said,  u  you  remind  me  of  one  of  our  old 
neighbors,  who  said  that  she  generally  made  her 
doughnuts  without  sweetening,  because  her  husband 
liked  them  better  so,  but  sometimes  she  put  in 
molasses,  as  she  thought  it  '  made  them  more  amusing 
for  the  children.' " 

The  mother  laughed  from  her  door-step,  where, 
having  finished  her  work,  she  sat  resting.  "  And  the 
other  day,"  she  said,  "  when  we  were  walking  round 
Bramhall,  he  called  me  to  look  away  down  on  a  dis 
tant  meadow,  where  he  said  he  could  see  '  a  drove  of 
cattle  slow  mouldering  o'er  the  plain.'  " 

"  Well,  that  word  mouldering  always  does  seem  to 
me  to  mean  moving  slowly,"  said  Bob.  "When  I 
make  my  dictionary,  I  'm  going  to  have  it  so." 

When  Bob's  wild  garden  began  to  grow,  it  was,  as 
Brunette  said,  a  sight  to  behold.  Coreopsis,  larkspur, 
ambrosia,  asters,  pansies,  marigolds,  petunias  and 
everlastings  elbowed  each  other  amicably  in  the  most 
altogethery  confusion,  protecting  the  weeds  with  their 
own  lives,  since  not  a  weed  could  be  pulled  out  with 
out  bringing  with  it  half-a-dozen  plants.  But  he  was 
pleased  with  his  success,  and  during  the  summer, 
gathered  from  it  many  a  breakfast-table  bouquet,  and 


316  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

supplied  his  sister  whenever  she  wanted  a  bright 
flower  for  her  hair.  And  in  return  she  made  him  this 
song  in  praise  of  his  morning-glories. 

MORNING-GLORIES. 

O  dainty  daughters  of  the  dawn  —  most  delicate  of  flowers, 
How  fitly  do  ye  come  to  deck  day's  most  delicious  hours! 
Evoked  by  morning's  earliest  breath,  your  fragile  cups 

unfold 
Before  the  light  has  cleft  the  sky,  or  edged  the  world 

with  gold ,  — 

Before  luxurious  butterflies  and  moths  are  yet  astir, 

Before  the  heedless  breeze  has  snapped  the  leaf-hung 
gossamer, 

While  sphered  dew-drops,  yetunquaffed  by  thirsty  insect- 
thieves, 

Broider  with  rows  of  diamonds  the  edges  of  the  leaves. 

Ye  drink  from  day's  o'erflowing  brim,  nor  ever  dream  of 


noon; 


With  bashful  nod  ye  greet  the  sun,  whose  flattery  scorches 

soon; 
Your  trumpets  trembling  to  the  touch  of  humming-bird 

and  bee, 
In  tender  trepidation  sweet,  and  fair  timidity. 

No  flowers  in  all  the  garden  have  so  wide  a  choice  of  hue, 

The  deepest  purple  dyes  are  yours  —  the  tenderest  tints 
of  blue  — 

While  some  are  colorless  as  light  — some  flushed  incar 
nadine, 

And  some  are  clouded  crimson,  'Lie  a  goblet  stained  with 
wine. 


IN  THE  GARDEN.  317 

Ye  hold  not  in  your  calm  cool  hearts  the  passion  of  the 

rose, 

Ye  do  not  own  the  haughty  pride  the  regal  lily  knows, 
But  ah,  no  blossom  has  the  charm,  the  purity  of  this, 
Which  shrinks  before  the  tenderest  love,  and  dies  beneath 

a  kiss. 

In  this  wide  garden  of  the  world,  where  he  is  wise  who 

knows 
The  bramble  from  the  sweet-brier,  the  nettle  from  the 

rose, 
Some  lives  there  are  which  seem  like  these,  as  sensitive 

and  fair, 
As  far  from  thought  of  sin  and  shame,  as  free  from  soil 

of  care. 

We  find  sometimes  these  splendid  souls,  when  all  our 
world  is  young, 

When  life  is  crisp  with  freshness,  with  unshaken  dew- 
drops  hung; 

They  blossom  in  the  cool  dim  hours,  when  all  is  still  and 
fair, 

But  cease  and  vanish  long  before  the  noonday's  heat  and 
glare. 

And  if  in  manhood's  dusty  time,  fatigued  with  toil  and 

glow, 
We  crave  the  fresh,  young  morning-heart  which  charmed 

us  long  ago, 
We  seek  in  vain  the  olden  ways,  the  shadows  moist  and 

fair, 
The  heart-shaped  leaves  may  linger,  but  the  blossom  is 

not  there. 


318  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

The   fairest  are  most   fragile   still,  the  world  of  being 

through ; 
The  finest  spirits  faint  before  they  lose  life's  morning 

dew; 
The  trials  and  the  toils  of  time  touch  not  their  tender 

truth, 
For  ere  the  world  can  stain  them,  they  achieve  immortal 

youth  I 


XXVIII. 
THE   MALIGNED   COMPOSITOR. 

"  IT  is  all  very  well  for  Brunette  to  make  every 
body  laugh  at  the  blunders  of  the  poor  hard-worked 
compositors,"  said  the  charitable  mother,  one  evening, 
when  a  circle  of  merry  young  people  had  been  edified 
and  amused  in  the  sitting-room,  by  that  young  lady's 
reading  of  sundry  fragments  of  paper  taken  from  her 
dress-pocket.  "  I  saw  it  stated  the  other  day  that  in  a 
newspaper  the  size  of  the  Adviser,  the  actual  number 
of  bits  of  metal  which  must  be  arranged  for  every 
issue,  is  not  far  from  six  hundred  thousand.  The 
journal  which  made  this  statement  went  on  to  say : 

'"We  read  sometimes  of  a  wonderful  piece  of  mosaic 
work,  containing,  perhaps,  fifty  thousand  pieces,  the 
maker  of  which  has  spent  months  or  even  years  of 
labor  in  producing  it,  and  people  go  to  see  it  as  a 
curiosity;  but  the  most  elaborate  and  carefully-fitted 
piece  of  work  of  this  kind  ever  made,  does  not  com 
pare  with  that  which  the  printer  does  every  day,  for 
minuteness  of  detail  and  accuracy  of  fitting.  The 
man  who  does  the  first,  is  looked  upon  as  a  marvel  of 
skill.  If  a  hundred  of  his  pieces  are*  put  in  wrong 
side  up,  or  turned  the  wrong  way,  it  is  not  noticed  in 
the  general  effect ;  but  if  the  printer,  in  fitting  ten 

319 


320  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

times  as  many  pieces  together  in  a  single  day,  puts 
one  where  another  should  be,  or  turns  one  the  wrong 
way,  everybody  sees  it,  and  is  amazed  at  the  "  stupid 
carelessness  of  printers."  ' " 

"  I  don't  wish  to  underrate  the  craft,"  said  Brunette, 
laughing.  "  I  am  only  trying  to  prove  that  printers 
have  a  great  deal  more  humor  than  is  generally  cred 
ited  to  them,  that  's  all." 

"  Would  you  like  to  hear  about  a  little  blunder  that 
Brunette  herself  made  once?"  asked  the  mother, 
mischievously.  "  Notwithstanding  she  has  so  sharp  a 
nose  for  the  blunders  of  others,  I  once  heard  her  not 
only  make  a  very  embarrassing  blunder,  but  persist  in 
it  for  a  whole  evening.  It  cost  me  the  acquaintance 
of  a  very  nice  young  man,  too,"  said  the  mother, 
regretfully. 

Brunette  looked  conscious.  "Well,  tell  it  if  you 
like,"  she  said,  "  since  they  all  want  to  hear  it,  espe 
cially  Bob,"  she  added,  perceiving  that  individual's 
face  shining  with  pleased  expectancy.  "I  know  he 
is  thinking,  'Anything  to  beat  Brunette  ! '  But  how 
I  happened  to  do  that,  I  shall  never  understand.  It 
was  a  clear  case  of  '  possession. ' ' 

"  It  was  while  we  lived  in  the  South,"  began  the 
mother.  "  We  had  a  little  evening  party,  and  among 
the  guests  was  a  young  man  whose  strong  point,  like 
that  of  many  other  Virginians,  was  his  boast  that  he 
was  descended  from  Pocahontas." 

"  Yes,"  put  in  Brunette,  "  it  is  noticeable  that  the 
average  Virginian  is  always  descended  either  from 


THE  MALIGNED   COMPOSITOE.  321 

Pocahontas,  Patrick  Henry,  John  Randolph,  or  the 
Lee  or  Washington  family.  I  don't  know  how  many 
of  the  latter  I  saw  while  I  lived  there.  For  a  man 
who  never  had  any  children,  I  must  say  that  Wash 
ington  beats  the  world  for  descendants." 

"I  am  not  going  to  be  led  off  the  track  of  my 
story,"  persisted  the  mother.  "This  young  man's 
name  was  Perkins,  and  he  was  always  preaching 
Pocahontas.  Brunette  knew  this,  and  thought  it 
would  be  only  good-natured  to  lead  him  up  to  his 
favorite  topic,  especially  as  he  had  yawned  while  she 
was  singing.  So  she  said  : 

" '  Mr.  Pokins,  I  hear  you  are  a  descendant  of  the 
Indian  princess,  Perkyhontas  ?  ' 

"  She  had  been  meditating  this  sentence  so  long 
that  she  had  accidentally  mixed  the  gentleman's  name 
with  that  of  his  renowned  ancestor.  He  winced  a 
little,  and  replied,  proudly,  but  not  at  his  usual  length, 
while  Brunette,  ashamed  of  her  blunder,  determined 
to  try  again. 

"'Do  you  have  any  idea  that  the  historical  account 
of  Perkyhontas  is  true,  Mr.  Pokins?'  she  asked, 
again  unwittingly  falling  into  the  same  trap,  through 
her  very  eagerness  to  keep  out. 

"  Mr.  Perkins  looked  at  her  with  rising  choler,  evi 
dently  suspecting  her  of  making  fun  of  him;  but 
seeing  her  seriousness  and  evident  confusion,  con 
tented  himself  with  a  brief  reply,  the  subject,  for  once, 
being  distasteful  to  him.  It  was  dropped  for  the 
14* 


322  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

time ;  but  poor  Brunette  could  not  bear  to  be  set 
down  as  ill-bred,  and  she  planned  to  right  herself  by 
recurring  again  to  his  favorite  topic,  and  at  last  pro 
nouncing  the  'name  of  his  famous  progenitor  aright. 
So,  later  in  the  evening,  she  with  some  misgiving, 
approached  the  matter.  But  the  fiend  who  on  such 
occasions  seems  to  take  charge  of  people's  tongues, 
made  her  say,  in  the  briskest  and  most  engaging  man 
ner,  calculated  to  disarm  and  conciliate  her  half- 
offended  listener : 

" '  It  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Pokins,  that  you  are 
extremely  unwilling  to-night,  to  tell  us  about  Perky- 
hontas ! ' 

"  He  gave  her  a  glance  that  ought  to  have  broken 
her  bones,  and  it  is  needless  to  add  that  the  young 
man  never  called  again  !  " 

Everybody  laughed  but  Brunette,  who  declared 
that  the  result  of  her  mispronunciation  was  so  melan 
choly,  that  she  never  could  see  any  fun  in  it.  And 
Bob  exclaimed  stoutly : 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  '11  think  of  that,  the  next  time  I 
make  a  mistake,  and  not  hold  me  up  to  public  execu 
tion  as  you  generally  do  !  " 

Brunette  smiled  at  her  mother,  and  evidently  obeyed 
Bob's  suggestion,  for  she 'neither  laughed  at  nor  cor 
rected  him. 

"  Bob  mistakes  a  little,  sometimes,  too,"  said  the 
mother,  "  but  that  mostly  comes  from  his  reading  so 
much  to  himself,  and  not  pronouncing  the  words  aloud. 


THE  MALIGNED  COMPOSITOR.  323 

Do  you  remember  a  great,  great  while  ago,  when  you 
told  me  you  had  been  reading  about '  an  elephant  of 
giantic  preparations '  ?  " 

"  I  meant  gigantic  proportions,"  said  Bob.  "  Of 
course  it  was  wrong,  but,  to  this  day,  I  think  that  word 
ought  to  be  l  giantic,'  it  means  like  a  giant,  don't  it?" 

"People  taller  than  you  make  that  same  sort  of 
blunder,"  said  the  mother.  "  I  remember  a  gentleman 
who  was  a  successful  lawyer,  and  who  attained  a  high 
political  position  in  a  southern  State  after  the  war, 
who  once  talked  half  an  hour  to  me  about  « the  Mil- 
kado  of  Japan.'  I  supposed  him  in  sport,  and  laughed, 
and  when  he  insisted  that  I  explain  myself,  it  appeared 
that  he  had  always  read  and  pronounced  the  word 
*  Mikado '  with  an  1  in  it.  And  he  was  so  hard  to  con 
vince,  that  he  flatly  contradicted  not  only  my  evidence, 
but  that  of  a  newspaper  at  hand ;  and  it  was  only  by 
hunting  up  the  word  in  various  books  and  magazines, 
that  I  succeeded  in  assuring  him  of  the  correct 
spelling." 

"  Speaking  of  persistence  in  a  blunder  of  speech," 
said  Brunette,  "  the  power  of  precedent  is  astonishing. 
A  lady  friend  of  mine,  who  really  knows  better,  when 
ever  she  speaks  of  an  anemone,  always  calls  it  'an 
enemy ' ;  and  not  long  ago,  I  heard  a  very  scholarly 
gentleman  i  in  telling  a  story  about  a  great  snow 
storm,  speak  repeatedly  about  *  snovelling  show.'  He 
was  not  content  with  making  the  blunder  once,  but 
kept  it  up  all  through  his  story.  And  not  long  since, 


324  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

at  an  evening  party,  a  young  man  was  telling  the  his 
tory  of  a  robbery,  in  which  a  certain  seal  ring  played 
a  very  conspicuous  part — I  believe  the  thief  was 
identified  by  means  of  the  ring.  But  every  time  that 
excellent  and  generally  accurate  young  man  mentioned 
it,  he  called  it  a  '  seal-skin  ring,'  to  his  own  infinite 
confusion,  and  the  bewilderment  of  every  hearer  who 
did  not  understand  that  a  vexatious  sprite  had  tempo 
rary  possession  of  his  tongue." 

"  The  other  day,",  said  the  mother,  "  a  lady  was 
telling  me  about  her  father's  family,  of  which  all  the 
boys  were  dark-eyed.  *  But,'  said  she,  looking  me 
gravely  in  the  face,  '  we  blue  girls  all  had  three  eyes.' 
It  is  odd  how,  when  one  mistakes  in  the  first  part  of 
a  sentence,  one  is  so  sure  to  make  an  involuntary 
attempt  to  restore  the  balance  by  another  blunder  at 
the  end.  One  seems  full  of  the  insane  notion  that 
two  wrongs  will  somehow  make  a  right,  and  restore 
harmony." 

"I  was  in  a  dry-goods  store  down-town,  the  other 
day,"  said  one  of  the  visitors,  "  and  the  proprietor 
assured  me  that  his  business  was  *  both  wholetail  and 
resale  ! '  But  I  came  out  before  he  had  time  to  repeat 
it." 

"  It  is  useless  to  try  to  mend  such  a  thing  by  going 
back,"  said  the  mother,  "  as  may  be  proved  by  the 
mischance  of  an  excellent  man  whom  I  knew  in  the 
South.  He  was  one  of  the  most  sincere  and  hard 
working  of  clergymen,  and  was  pastor  of  a  little 


THE  MALIGNED   COMPOSITOK.  325 

church  near  Richmond.  He  had,  with  all  his  goodness 
and  sincerity,  a  severe  affliction  in  an  uncommon 
thickness  and  unmanageability  of  tongue.  He  was 
always  making  the  most  absurd  blunders  in  pronuncia 
tion,  transposing  words,  or  misplacing  syllables  and 
letters.  Painfully  aware  of  his  weakness,  he,  in  his 
very  anxiety  to  avoid  mistakes,  seemed  to  multiply 
them ;  and  if  he  began  his  Sunday's  work  by  a  blun 
der,  he  was  pretty  sure,  in  his  nervous  worry,  to 
blunder  on  and  on,  through  all  the  services  of  the 
day. 

"  One  morning  he  arose  in  the  pulpit,  and  said,  with 
much  feeling :  '  My  friends,  we  do  not  gather  grapes 
of  thorns,  nor  thigs  of  fistles.'  Horrified  at  this  mis 
take,  it  occurred  to  him  that  his  best  way  would  be 
simply  to  ignore  it,  and  repeat  th$  sentence  correctly. 
4 1  wish  to  impress  it  upon  your  minds,  my  hearers,' 
he  urged,  'that  we  can  never  gather  grapes  of  thorns, 
nor  from  fistles  can  we  expect  thigs  ! ' 

"  Recovering  partially  from  this  accident,  he  under 
took  to  give  out  the  beautiful  hymn  : 

"  '  While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night.' 

"It  was  Christmas-time,  and  the  sermon  that  he 
had  prepared,  dwelt  largely  on  the  song  of  the  angels 
at  Bethlehem,  and  his  mind  was  full  of  angels.  He 
arose  and  read  in  a  strong,  full  voice : 

"  *  While  angels  watched  their  flocks  by  night, 

All  seated  on  the  ground, 
The  angel  of  the  Lord  — ' 


326  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

"  Here  he  became  aware  of  too  many  angels,  and  a 
lack  of  shepherds,  and  he  hurriedly  cleared  his  throat 
and  began  anew : 

"  '  While  angels  watched  their  flocks  by  night, 

All  seated  on  the  ground, 
The  shepherd  of  the  Lord  — ' 

"  This  would  not  do ;  the  shepherd  was  in  the 
wrong  place.  The  poor  clergyman  saw  it,  and 
thought,  in  his  extremity,  that  he  would  not  go  back 
again,  but  would  read  the  hymn  through,  and  then, 
seizing  the  opportunity  of  repeating  the  first  line 
again,  —  a  practice  with  many  pastors,  —  would  rectify 
his  error  once  for  all.  But  this  man  was  one  of  those 
more  prone  to  follow  precedent  than  to  learn  from 
experience,  and,  after  finishing  the  hymn,  he  returned, 
like  a  moth  to  the  candle,  and  with  a  powerful  and 
impressive  voice  and  manner,  read,  for  the  third  time  : 

"  '  While  angels  watched  their  flocks  by  night,' 

and  then  suddenly  retreated  to  the  small  room  behind 
the  pulpit,  to  recover  his  color  during  the  singing, 

"Another  unlucky  Sunday,  when  he  had  repeatedly 
been  made  the  sport  of  misfortune,  and  was  somewhat 
nervous  from  a  recent  failure,  he  said  earnestly : 

"'My  friends,  lay  up  for  yourselves  treasures  in 
heaven,  where  neither  moth  nor  rutht  doth  corrupt, 
nor  thievth  break  through  and  thteal.' 

"  Normally,  the  man  did  not  lisp  in  the  least ;  but 
the  abundance  of  aspirates  in  the  difficult  sentence, 
completely  demoralized  him.  He  took  a  drink  of 


THE  MALIGNED   COMPOSITOR.  327 

water,  and  began  again,  very  red,  and  very  much  dis 
tressed,  but  determined  to  have  the  proper  number  of 
sibilants  this  time. 

"'Where  neiser  moss  nor  rust  dost  corrupt,  nor 
sieves  break  srough  and  steal,'  pronounced  he,  with 
emphasis.  He  had  left  out  all  the  aspirates ;  and  in  a 
sort  of  frenzy,  he  exclaimed  : 

" '  I  would  thay,  lay  up  for  yourthelvth  treathureth 
in  heaven,  where  neiser  moss  nor  rutht  dost  corrupt, 
nor  sieves  break  srough  and  thteal,'  thus  displacing 
every  th  and  every  s,  with  an  unconscious  ingenuity 
born  of  utter  desperation." 


XXIX. 

THE  EIGHTH  TRIANGULAR. 

"  I  WILL  read  first,"  said  the  mother,  at  the  next 
Society  meeting,  "  a  few  stanzas  about  a  little  girl, 
somebody's  namesake,  evidently,  and  a  very  charming 
and  much  beloved  child.  Perhaps  one  of  you  will  be 
pleased  with  them." 

LIZZIE. 
Dear  little  dark-eyed  namesake ! 

The  summers  are  all  too  few 
Since  she  brightened  with  graceful  wearing 

The  name  that  my  childhood  knew. 
I  hoped  it  would  crown  her  with  sunshine 

Fairer  than  ever  smiled; 
I  said  it  should  bring  her  a  blessing  — 

Dear  little  dark-eyed  child! 

I  said  it  should  bring  her  a  blessing  — 

Was  I  wiser  than  I  guessed  ? 
Was  the  blessing  a  long  sweet  childhood, 

And  an  early  and  happy  rest  ? 
For  the  loving  circle  that  held  her 

Is  robbed  of  its  precious  pearl; 
The  youngest,  the  fairest,  the  darling;  — 

Dear  little  dark-eyed  girl! 
328 


THE  EIGHTH   TRIANGULAR.  329 

She  stood  where  the  path  of  childhood  — 

A  lane  through  .a  flowery  wood  — 
Led  out  to  the  wide,  dim  distance 

Of  .perilous  womanhood;  — 
Woman  or  angel  ?  —  The  future 

Like  a  question  before  her  lay; 
What  wonder  she  paused  and  faltered, 

And  chose  the  easier  way  V 

Not  for  her  are  the  crosses 

And  bonds  of  a  woman's  life, 
Nor  the  burdens  and  costly  blessings 

Which  cling  to  the  name  of  wife ; 
Nor  labor,  nor  doubt,  nor  anguish, 

Nor  the  great  world's  dusty  whirl; 
Not  one  of  them  touched  her  garment  — 

Dear  little  dark-eyed  girl! 

Timidly  leaning  always 

On  the  hearts  which  loved  her  best, 
Sheltered  from  every  sorrow, 

She  dwelt  in  the  warm  home  nest; 
Never  a  grief  came  near  her, 

Nor  trial  nor  loss  she  bore, 
And  none  in  the  home  that  holds  her, 

Shall  find  her  forevermore! 

O  fair  and  fetterless  spirit! 

The  name  that  my  childhood  knew, 
Though  rarely  I  hear  it  spoken, 

Is  sweeter  because  of  you! 
What  matter  how  little  value 

On  earth  to  the  name  be  given, 
Since  now  it  is  worn  by  an  angel, 

'T  is  tenderly  breathed  in  heaven  ? 


330  THE  TBI ANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

"  I  missed  one  of  my  small  friends  last  week,"  said 
Brunette,  "one  who  always  had  a  smile  for  me  when 
I  passed  along  on  my  way  up  or  down  town.  I 
thought  perhaps  he  had  gone  away  temporarily,  for 
he  always  seemed  so  rosy  and  well  that  a  thought  of 
illness  never  occurred  to  me.  But  J  presently  noticed 
in  the  paper  that  he  was  dead.  And  I  have  written  a 
few  lines  to  his  memory,  which  I  will  read  you." 

BERTIE. 
All  winter,  walking  up  and  down, 

I  met  him  every  day, 
And  watched  his  beauty  with  delight  — 

A  merry  boy  at  play. 
His  tender  face  was  rosy  fair, 

A  winsome  face  to  kiss ; 
"  A  happy  mother  she,"  I  said, 

"  Who  owns  a  child  like  this!  " 

I  was  a  stranger  —  still  he  learned 

To  know  my  face  at  last. 
And  met  my  greeting  with  a  smile 

Of  welcome  as  I  passed. 
His  curls  danced  brightly  in  the  wind, 

His  laugh  rang  sweet  and  far, 
His  soft  brown  eyes  were  frank  and  clear 

As  babes'  or  angels'  are. 

One  day  I  did  not  hear  his  voice 

In  the  accustomed  place ; 
I  sought  in  vain  his  dancing  curls  — 

I  missed  his  happy  face ; 
And  yesterday  the  cruel  words 

I  read  with  bitter  pain, 


THE  EIGHTH  TRIANGULAR.  331 

Which  told  me  I  should  never  see 
His  lovely  eyes  again. 

The  street  is  full  of  children  still  — 

They  run  and  laugh  and  call, 
But  yet  I  miss  the  shy  sweet  face 

I  prized  above  them  all ; 
And  I  shall  walk  my  morning  way 

Alas,  a  weary  while, 
Ere  I  forget  the  lovely  boy 

"Who  gave  me  smile  for  smile. 

"  I  have  some  verses  here  about  a  little  child,  too," 
said  Bob,  "  but  they  are  not  sorrowful.  I  '11  read 
them  next." 

GRACIE   WITH   THE  GOLDEN   HAIR. 
Is  she  not  exceeding  fair, 
Gracie  with  the  golden  hair 
Floating  round  her,  like  the  haze 
Of  the   Indian  summer  days  ? 
Just  a  baby  undefiled, 
Dancing,   dimpled,   darling  child! 
Is  she  not  exceeding  fair, 
Gracie  with  the  golden  hair? 

Two  short  years  hath   Gracie   stayed 
In  this  world  of  shine  and  shade, 
And  her  life  has  been  as  blest 
As  a  young  bird's  in  its   nest, 
Shielded  safe  from  want  and  fear, 
By  the  hearts  which  hold  her  dear,  — 
Wholly  happy,  unaware, — 
Gracie  with  the  golden  hair. 


332  THE  TEIANGULAK   SOCIETY. 

Never  to  herself  she   saith, 

"  Wherefore  life  ?  "  or  "  Wherefore  -  death  ?  " 

Gracie  leaves  these   queries  dread 

To  some  graver,  older  head; 

Longing  for  no  morrow's  rays, 

Mourning  for  no  yesterdays, 

She  hath  neither  doubt  nor  care, 

Gracie  with  the  golden  hair. 

Yet  sometimes  a  thoughtful  shade 
Falls  athwart  the   little   maid, 
And  a  tender  sadness  lies, 
Deep  within  her  gentle   eyes; 
But  she   smiles  ao:ain  ere  Ions:, 

£3  O  / 

Carolling  her  merriest  song, 
Like   a  sparrow  in  the  air, 
Gracie   with  the  golden  hair. 

Gracie  hath  a  cherub  face, 
Full  of  sweet,  unworldly  grace; 
Gracie's  eyes  are  tenderest  blue, 
Limpid  as  a  drop  of  dew; 
And  her  cheek,   so  pure   it  shows, 
Seemeth  like  a  fresh  white  rose. 
Is  she  not  exceeding  fair, 
Gracie   with  the  golden  hair? 

And  if  Gracie,  though  she  seems 
Like  the   shapes  in  holy  dreams, 
Be  not  quite  an  angel  yet, 
Wherefore   should  we  feel  regret? 
For  our  hearts   would  all  be  riven, 
Should  she  fly   away  to  heaven;  — 
Ah,  our  souls  could  never  spare 
Gracie  with  the  golden  hair  ! 


THE   EIGHTH   TKIANGULAR.  333 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  specially  fond  of  that 
name,"  said  Brunette.  "Is  there  a  school-mate  called 
Gracie,  perhaps  ? " 

"  Two  or  three ;  and  beside,  if  there  was  n't  any,  I 
should  always  be  fond  of  the  name,  and  whenever  I 
find  a  poem  about  a  Gracie,  I  always  save  it  for  my 
scrap-book." 

"  You  and  Brunette  have  both  read  about  children," 
said  the  mother,  "  and  I  have  something  here  about  a 
poor  little  colored  boy  who  died  down  South  of  chills 
and  fever,  as  hundreds  of  them  do  every  year.  And 
no  wonder;  they  have  no  intelligent  care  nor  nursing, 
and  are  doctored  to  death  with  unfit  medicines  as  soon 
as  they  are  a  little  ill.  But  here  is  the  little  history." 


NED. 

Who  knew  of  little  Ned  ? 
Who  cared  a  straw  for  him,  alive  or  dead? 

Ned,  with  his  ebon  face, 
A  wretched  scion  of  a  wretched  race, 

A  worthless  life  gone  down 
Unnoticed,  in  an  over-crowded  town. 

Scanty  and  poor  the  food 
His  mother's  labor  gave  her  hungry  brood, 

Windowless,  dingy,  dim, 
Was  the  poor  hovel  which  was  home  to  him ; 

Improvidence  and  chance 
Buled  there,  with  poverty  and  ignorance. 


334  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Often,  as  he  passed  by, 
I  smiled  again  into  his  smiling  eye, 

Or  gave,  to  his  delight, 
String  for  his  ball,  or  paper  for  his  kite, 

And  oftentimes,  poor  Ned! 
That  which  he  needed  more  than  playthings,  —  bread. 

His  poor  pretence  of  dress 
Was  worn  and  rent  to  utter  raggedness, 

Yet  in  the  summer  street, 
He  played  with  children  gaily  dressed  and  neat, 

Who  did  not  keep  in  sight 
The  bridgeless  gulf  dividing  black  and  white. 

They  shared  the  self -same  plays, 
Bounding  and  shouting  through  the  sunny  days, 

Nor  ever  seemed  to  care 
Which  dingy  hand,  if  washed,  would  be  most  fair; 

Until  the  fall  of  night 
Ended  the  games  which  only  ceased  with  light. 

They  used  to  find  their  rest 
In  pleasant  homes,  with  love  and  plenty  blest, 

Where,  all  refreshed  and  soothed, 
Their    tired    limbs    bathed,  their  tangled    tresses 
smoothed, 

They  nestled,  all  the  night, 
In  cool,  soft  beds,  with  pillows  dainty  white. 

But  he,  poor  little  Ned, 
A  heap  of  tattered  rags  was  all  his  bed; 

And  want  and  squalor  kept 
Watch  in  the  crowded  chamber  while  he  slept,  — 

The  atmosphere  defiled 
Poisoning  the  slumbers  of  the  hapless  child. 


THE   EIGHTH   TKIANGULAE.  335 

He  played  the  summer  through, 
And  autumn  came;  November  rain-storms  blew, 

And  in  the  blasts  unkind, 
Shivering,  half -clad,  the  child  grew  ill  and  pined, 

Forgot  his  wonted  mirth, 
And  cowered  all  day  beside  the  cheerless  hearth. 

Roundness  and  smiles  forsook 
His  thinning  cheek;  a  suffering,  patient  look 

Touched  with  a  piteous  grace 
His  wide  and  wistful  eyes,  his  small,  dark  face; 

As  ever  asking,  "  Why  ? 
Does  life  mean  only  to  endure  —  and  die  V  " 

Days  passed ;  and  now  no  more 
He  joined  the  noisy  group  around  the  door, 

Yet  ever  kept  in  sight 
His  sorry  playthings  —  ball  and  hoop  and  kite  — 

Sighing,  "  Another  day 
I  shall  be  well  enough  to  go  and  play." 

Alas,  poor  stricken  Ned! 
All  night  he  shivered  in  his  meagre  bed, 

And  weary  day  by  day 
The  fever  came  and  burned  his  strength  away; 

Fate  left  him  naught  to  choose ; 
A  life  so  wretched  was  not  much  to  lose. 

Even  at  his  poor  life's  end, 
He  asked  for  me,  —  for  I  had  been  his  friend; 

And  with  the  uttered  name, 

His  trembling  soul  went  — .whither  ?  —  whence  it 
came; 

Some  happier  sphere  to  find, 
Where  angels,  let  us  hope,  are  color-blind. 


336  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Small  is  the  meed  I  claim 
Of  worldly  gratitude,  or  praise,  or  fame, 

Yet  it  is  something  worth, 
That  he,  the  poorest,  humblest  of  the  earth, 

Passed  through  death's  brief  eclipse, 
Bearing  my  name  upon  his  grateful  lips. 

Ah,  well,  what  mattered  it  ? 
This  poor,  pinched  soul  which  no  one  prized  a  whit  ? 

One  more  small  life  gone  down 
Uncounted,  in  a  sickly  southern  town; 

Ah,  me!  I  wonder  why 
A  being  so  forlorn  should  live  and  die  ? 

"  Now  that 's  altogether  too  melancholy,"  said  Bob, 
with  a  suspicious  huskiness  in  his  voice.  "  What  's 
the  use  to  read  things  that  make  us  feel  miserable  ?" 

"  A  little  melancholy,  occasionally,  does  no  harm," 
said  the  mother.  "  We  should  grow  very  selfish  and 
unfeeling  if  we  were  never  reminded  of  the  sufferings 
of  others.  When  I  hear  a  young  woman  longing  to 
go  to  Squirrel  Island,  or  the  mountains,  or  Moosehead 
L;ike,  or  Old  Orchard,  '  to  stay  all  summer  long  with 
out  a  thing  to  do,'  or  a  younger  boy  pining  to  live 
in  a  big  house  with  a  long  picture-gallery,  and  a  large 
library,  and  a  peacock  sunning  himself  outside,  it 
seems  to  me  that  it  would  do  them  no  harm  to  be 
reminded  of  the  thousands  and  thousands  of  poor 
souls  who  are  worse  off  than  themselves." 

Silence  reigned  for  a  few  minutes;  probably  a 
period  of  wholesome  reflection.  Brunette  spoke  first. 
So  long  as  this  session  seems  to  be  devoted  to 


" 


THE   EIGHTH  TRIANGULAR.  837 

children,"  she  said,  "I  will  read  some  verses  which  I 
wrote  some  time  ago  about  a  lovely  little  boy  whom  I 
knew." 

"  I  hope  it  does  n't  turn  out  that  he  died,"  said  Bob. 
"  It  seems  to  me  that  all  the  pretty  and  lovely  children 
die  while  they  are  little." 

"My  brother  Bob  is  not  in  the  least  conceited," 
commented  Brunette. 

"  Nor  specially  complimentary  to  his  sister,"  said 
the  mother.  "  But  I  don't  agree  with  Bob  that  all  the 
lovely  and  beautiful  children  die ;  a  great  many  of 
them  grow  up,  and  become  selfish,  and  naughty,  and 
common-looking ;  and  then  people  forget  how  sweet 
and  charming  they  used  to  be,  and  presently  come  to 
believe  that  all  the  pretty  and  angelic  ones  die  young. 
The  dear  little  creatures  who  die  while  they  are 
babies,  or  very  little  children,"  continued  she  softly, 
"remain  in  our  memories  unchanged;  sweet  and  inno 
cent,  pure,  and  tender,  and  loving,  forevermore." 

After  a  little,  Brunette  said,  "  This  little  boy  was 
as  sound,  healthy,  and  vigorous  as  possible.  He  had 
long  yellow  hair,  and  his  eyes  were  clear  as  the  sky  in 
June.  And  see  how  happy  he  was  ! " 

WINNIE. 

In  a  home-nest  of  peace  and  joy, 
Bright  and  pleasant  as  home  can  be, 

Lives  a  merry  and  sweet-faced  boy, 
Under  a  broad  old  apple  tree ; 

15 


338  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Searching  wide,  you  will  seldom  meet 
Child  so  blithesome  and  fair  as  he, 

How  can  he  help  being  pretty  and  sweet, 
Dwelling  under  an  apple  tree  ? 

In  the  spring  when  the  child  goes  out, 

Glad  as  a  bird  that  winter  's  past, 
Making  his  flower-beds  all  about, 

Liking  best  what  he  finished  last; 
Then  the  tree  from  each  blossomy  limb, 

Heaps  its  petals  about  his  feet, 
And  like  a  benison  over  him 

Scatters  its  fragrances,  sweet  to  sweet. 

He  has  only  to  smile  and  win ; 

Face  more  lovely  was  never  kissed; 
Dear  blue  eyes  and  a  dimpled  chin, 

Curls  that  dance  in  a  golden  mist; 
Circled  ever  by  tenderest  care, 

Taught  and  guided  by  love's  decree. 
How  can  he  help  being  good  and  fair, 

Dwelling  under  an  apple  tree  ? 

In  the  summer  the  dear  old  tree 

Spreads  above  him  its  cooling  shade, 
Keeping  the  heat  from  his  cheek  while  he 

Playing  at  toil  with  rake  and  spade, 
Chasing  the  humming-birds'  gleam  and  dart, 

Watching  the  honey-bees  drink  and  doze, 
Gathers  in  body  and  soul  and  heart, 

Beauty  and  health,  like  an  opening  rose. 


THE  EIGHTH   TRIANGULAR.  339 

In  the  autumn,  before  the  leaves 

Lose  their  greenness,  the  apples  fall, 
Roll  on  the  roof  and  bounce  from  the  eaves, 

Pile  on  the  porch,  and  rest  on  the  wall; 
Then  he  heaps  on  the  grassy  ground 

Rosy  pyramids  brave  to  see; 
How  can  he  help  being  ruddy  and  sound, 

Dwelling  under  an  apple  tree  ? 

In  the  winter,  when  winds  are  wild, 

Then,  still  faithful,  the  sturdy  tree 
Keeps  its  watch  o'er  the  darling  child, 

Telling  him  tales  of  the  May  to  be; 
Teaching  him  faith  under  stormy  skies, 

Bidding  him  trust  when  he  cannot  see; 
IIow  can  he  help  being  happy  and  wise, 

Dwelling  under  an  apple  tree  ? 


XXX. 

CREEPING  THINGS. 

"  BEUNETTE,  are  you  afraid  of  worms  ?  "  asked  Bob, 
one  day,  as  his  sister  came  in,  at  supper-time. 

"  Afraid  of  worms  ?  no  ;  why  should  I  be  ?  Worms 
don't  often  attack  human  beings.  What  kind  of 
worms  ? "  asked  she,  as  she  drew  off  her  gloves.  "  I 
believe  '  a  wild  worm '  was  the  cause  of  King  Arthur's 
death,  but  not  by  biting  him.  What  kind  of  worms 
do  you  mean?" 

"  O,  the  kind  that  doubles  up  and  straightens  out 
again,  —  sort  of  humps  itself  when  it  walks,"  explained 
Bob ;  "  the  kind  that 's  crawling  over  your  shoulders, 
and  along  your  skirt,  and  up  your  back  hair." 

"  Take  'em  off,  take  'em  off,"  cried  Brunette,  dan 
cing  about  in  anguish.  "  I  'm  not  afraid  of  worms, 
but  I  don't  like  to  be  crawled  on.  Take  'em  off, 
that  's  a  dear  boy,"  she  pleaded,  stooping  down  so 
that  he  could  reach  her  head.  "  They  're  those  mis 
chievous  span-worms,  which  are  eating  the  lovely  elm 
trees  all  bare,  and  I  suppose  there  's  a  dozen  down  my 
neck  and  up  my  sleeves  —  ugh !  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  call  them  span-worms,"  said 
Bob.  "  I  should  call  'em  spin-worms ;  any  way,  every 
one  has  a  string  to  him,  like  a  spider,  only  he  never 
340 


CREEPING  THINGS.  341 

seems  to  catch  any  flies.  Here  are  five  of  'em,  Bru 
nette,  hold  your  hand,  and  you  can  carry  'em  up-stairs, 
and  make  some  verses  about  'em,"  continued  Bob, 
with  sarcastic  meaning.  He  had  never  quite  forgiven 
Brunette  for  her  strictures  on  the  epitaph  that  he  had 
long  ago  written  about  John,  and  had  since  been  apt 
to  criticise  rather  sharply  the  verses,  which  from  time 
to  time  she  read  to  her  mother,  for  comment  and 
approval,  before  offering  them  for  publication.  But 
she  took  his  present  suggestion  with  the  utmost  do 
cility. 

"  I  never  saw  so  many  creeping  things  about,  as 
there  are  this  summer,"  exclaimed  she,  presently,  dis 
entangling  a  big  June-beetle  from  the  lace  at  her 
wrist.  "  These  great  blundering  things  are  every 
where.  The  currant-bushes  are  full  of  green  worms, 
my  ivy  is  covered  with  mealy-bugs,  and  my  oleander 
crusted  with  scale-bugs  —  " 

"  I  don't  call  mealy-bugs  or  scale-bugs  *  creeping 
things,'"  demurred  Bob.  "I've  watched  them  by 
the  hour  with  a  magnifier,  and  they  never  move." 

"Well  any  way,  they  are  vermin,"  amended  his 
sister,  "  and  the  rose-leaves  are  being  skeletonized  by 
a  vicious  little  worm  that  gnaws  the  under  side  of 
them,  and  bores  into  the  buds  like  a  gimlet ;  and  — 
goodness!  here  arc  two  weevils  in  the  sugar-bowl! 
What  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  Of  two  weevils,  always  choose  the  least,"  sug 
gested  Bob.  "  I  heard  mother  tell  you  that,  the  other 
day,  when  you  said  you  believed  you  'd  rather  get 
wet  through,  than  to  carry  a  broken-ribbed  umbrella." 


342  THE  TKIANGTJLAR   SOCIETY. 

"  I  believe  those  little  creatures  come  from  the  gro 
cer's,"  said  the  mother.  "  I  often  find  them  in  the 
rice,  and  lately,  sometimes  in  the  sugar,  but  nowhere 
else.  I  must  speak  to  Mr.  Middleman,  or  his  clerk, 
about  them." 

"I  wish  there  were  some  Mr.  Middleman  to  wThom 
you  could  remonstrate  about  the  beetles,  and  the  rose- 
slugs,  and  the  mealy-bugs,  and  the  scale-bugs,  and 
the  —  caterpillars!"  almost  screamed  she,  suddenly 
brushing  one  off  the  side  of  her  neck.  "  O  Bob,  see 
if  there  are  any  more  of  'em  about  me  ! " 

c;  I  don't  see  any,"  replied  Bob,  "  and  I  wonder  why 
they  are  called  caterpillows  ?  Is  it  because  they  are 
soft  ?  I  've  seen  those  hard  cases  that  they  go  into 
when  they  want  to  be  butterflies,"  continued  he.  "  I 
suppose  those  are  caterpillow-cases,  are  n't  they  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  one  of  the  hardest  cases  I  ever 
saw,"  said  his  sister,  "  and  you  'd  better  put  that  cater- 
pillow  out  to  air." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Bob,  "  that  he  would  be  a  nice 
soft  subject  for  a  poem."  He  spoke  with  dreadful 
satire.  But  Brunette  smiled  superior,  and  an  evening 
or  two  after,  she  read  to  him  and  his  mother  the 
following : 

THE   SPAN-WORM. 

A   MELANCHOLY   MEASURE. 

Just  at  the  dawn  of  the  heated  term, 
Begins  the  reign  of  the  measuring  worm; 
From  the  roadside  branches  he  spins  and  swings, 
Hanging  and  wriggling  on  gossamer  strings ; 


CREEPING  THINGS.  343 

Lengthening  slowly  the  swaying  threads, 

He  drops  and  clings  on  the  passers'  heads, 

And,  happy  as  in  his  native  leaves, 

Crawls  under  their  collars  and  up  their  sleeves,  — 

Or,  reaching  the  ground  with  a  sudden  jerk, 

Collects  his  wits  and  begins  his  work. 

A  singular  fondness  the  creature  shows 
Eor  measuring  every  step  he  goes; 
Stretching  at  length,  he  halts  and  dreams, 
Then  brings  together  his  two  extremes, 
(Like  a  withered  tendril  curled  and  brown, 
Or  a  letter  U  turned  upside  down,) 
Then  reaching  forward  his  length  once  more, 
And  doubling  up  as  he  did  before, 
He  measures  the  fences,  the  ground,  the  wall, 
\V  Herevcr  he  happens  to  swing  or  fall, 
And  seems  to  add  up  the  distance  sped, 
And  keep  the  reckoning  in  his  head. 

Think  of  the  labor  to  count  and  count, 
Add  all  together  and  keep  the  amount ! 
Think  of  his  rage,  when  a  footstep's  fall 
Startles  and  makes  him  forget  it  all. 
And  he  with  wearisome  toil  and  pain, 
Must  measure  the  space  all  over  again ! 

Most  uncivil  of  engineers, 

What  do  you  care  for  tar  or  tears  ? 

In  every  curtain  of  leaves  you  lurk, 

And  ply  your  dreadful  dimension- work; 

Credulous  folly  it  is  to  think 

Of  barring  your  progress  with  printer's  ink; 

How  shall  we  check,  evade  or  flee 

Your  geometrical  industry  ? 


344  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

When  island  parties  go  clown  the  bay, 
You  vex  and  trouble  the  happy  day; 
When  thirst  distresses  or  hunger  mocks 
The  seeker  of  shells  and  sealer  of  rocks, 
You  twist  and  wriggle  and  squirm  and  roll 
In  the  tempting  midst  of  his  chowder-bowl; 
Happy  he,  if  its  lowest  dregs 
Be  not  made  up  of  your  skin  and  legs. 

Geometric!,  perform  your  will; 

Compass  the  width  of  the  window-sill, 

Crawl  on  the  table,  if  you  wish, 

In  butter-cooler  and  sugar-dish; 

Measure  the  pillow-case  at  night, 

But  keep  from  the  elms  your  gnawing  blight; 

In  the  words  by  George  P.  Morris  sung 

To  the  man  with  a  hatchet,  when  time  was  young, 

O  worm  of  the  genus  Phalcenidce, 

Inch-worm  insatiate,  spare  that  tree  I 


"I  like  that  pretty  well,"  said  Bob,  patronizingly, 
"only  I  don't  believe  they  ever  keep  any  reckoning." 

"  And  I  'm  afraid  you  will  be  thrown  out  of  your 
reckoning,  Brunette,"  said  the  mother,  "  if  you  expect 
any  editor  in  town  to  accept  that.  The  Portland 
papers  are  eminently  sedate  and  sensible  ;  they  rarely 
admit  anything  trifling  to  their  columns.  In  a  State 
which  produces  so  many  great  men,  life  is  a  serious 
matter." 

44  Very  well,"  said  Brunette,  "  if  they  don't  like 
that,  I  '11  try  them  with  this." 


CREEPING   THINGS.  345 

THE   CATERPILLAR. 
The  caterpillar  gnaws  his  way 

The  mellow  summer  through, 
And  though  he  spoils  the  cabbage-plants, 

And  rasps  the  rose-buds,  too, 
He  has  some  small  redeeming  traits, 

Albeit  but  a  few. 

"With  numerous  acquaintances, 

He  is  not  rich  in  friends; 
No  personal  attractiveness 

To  him  its  glamour  lends; 
About  the  middle  he  is  brown, 

And  black  at  both  the  ends. 

So,  though  his  foes,  the  gardeners, 

May  swear  about  his  sins, 
One  beauty  of  his  character 

Our  approbation  wins,  — 
The  virtue  of  consistency  — 

He  ends  as  he  begins  I 

Should  lifted  foot  or  hoe  approach, 

To  crush  him  for  his  crimes, 
Or  should  a  sudden  shower  o- 

vertake  him  where  he  climbs, 
He  rolls  himself  into  a  ball, 

And  waits  for  better  times. 

How  fortunate,  could  larger  lives 

But  learn  this  simple  feat  — 
Could  we  achieve,  when  on  our  heads 

Financial  tempests  beat, 
The  grace  and  skill  which  he  displays 

In  making  both  ends  meet  I 
15* 


346  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

He  wears  his  furs  all  through  dog-days, 

Despite  the  sultriness, 
But  when  the  frosty  weather  comes  — 

Strange  metamorphosis  !  — 
He  throws  his  fuzzy  coat  aside, 

A  naked  chrysalis. 

Because  his  favorite  leaves  have  lost 

Their  juice  and  flavoring, 
He  leaves  off  eating,  in  a  huff, 

Eschewing  everything  — 
Gives  over  crawling,  goes  to  bed, 

And  snoozes  there  till  spring  ! 

When  Panic  fills  the  stoutest  heart 

With  bodings  dark  and  dire, 
How  cheap  and  pleasant  it  would  be, 

If  we  could  thus  retire 
And  pass  the  winter,  with  no  need 

Of  food,  or  clothes,  or  fire  1 

But  while  he  keeps  his  humble  place 

Among  the  creeping  things, 
Threatened  by  every  passer-by 

With  being  crushed  to  strings, 
Do  you  suppose  the  creature  dreams 

About  his  future  wings  ? 

And  when  he  spins  his  snug  cocoon, 

And  bids  his  legs  good  by, 
Does  he  make  peace  with  all  the  world, 

And  tuck  him  up  to  die  ? 
Or  just  intend  to  sleep  awhile, 

And  wake  a  butterfly  ? 

"  Now  I  like  that,"  said  Bob ;  "  but  it  's  late,  and 
I  'm  afraid  that  I  shall  neither  « wake  a  butterfly,'  nor 
anything  else  in  season,  if  we  don't  adjourn." 


XXXI. 

ENVY  AND  AMBITION. 

"  MOTHER  !  "  said  Brunette,  as  she  came  up  into  the 
sitting-room,  and  threw  herself  on  a  hassock  at  her 
mother's  feet.  She  was  tired  with  her  day's  confined 
work,  and  warm  with  her  long  walk  since.  She  looked 
flushed  and  weary,  her  crimps  had  "  gone  crazy,"  as 
Bob  said,  and  her  back  hair  had  broken  loose  from  its 
pins. 

"  Mother,  I  believe  there  are  more  jealousies  and 
envyings  in  a  newspaper-office,  than  in  any  other  place 
of  the  size  in  the  world,  or  among  the  same  number 
of  people  anywhere." 

"  Brunette,"  said  her  mother,  aghast,  "  whom  do 
you  envy,  pray  ?  and  of  whom  is  my  usually  contented 
daughter  jealous?" 

"  I  envy  no  one  but  you,  mother,"  said  Brunette,  re 
covering  her  good-nature.  "  I  have  sometimes  reflected 
on  your  happiness  in  possessing  so  sweet-tempered, 
accomplished  and  every  way  dutiful  a  child  as  I  am. 
But  I  was  n't  reckoning  myself  in  my  estimate.  I  am 
not  '  in  the  regular  line  of  descent,'  or  ascent,  in  the 
office.  The  astute  foreman  long  ago  decided,  and 
whispered  it  about  among  the  others,  that  '  no  woman 
ought  to  have  a  place  of  so  much  importance '  as 


348  THE   TKIANGTJLAR   SOCIETY. 

mine,  although  my  wages  are  smaller  than  his.  I  am 
a  sort  of  interloper,  and  out  of  the  succession.  But 
in  every  newspaper  office,  the  office-boy  who  runs 
errands  and  sweeps,  thinks  he  ought  to  be  an  appren 
tice  in  the  composing-room ;  the  apprentice,  after  a 
few  weeks,  is  sure  that  he  can  *  set '  as  well  as  a  jour 
neyman,  and  ought  to  be  promoted  and  have  regular 
wages  ;  the  oldest  c  hand  '  knows  he  is  quite  competent 
to  take  the  foreman's  place,  and  is  not  slow  to  hint 
that  he  deserves  it ;  the  foreman  is  confident  that  he 
would  make  an  excellent  local  editor,  and  thinks  it  's 
about  time  he  had  a  lift;  the  local  editor  fancies  it 
would  be  much  pleasanter  sitting  at  the  news  editor's 
desk  all  day,  dry  and  comfortable,  than  racing  all 
about  town  in  the  rain  or  snow,  chasing  the  elusive 
item ;  and  the  news  editor  feels  himself  to  be  fully 
capable  of  taking  entire  charge,  '  running  the  paper,' 
and  being  chief  editor.  You  see  this  feeling  in  all  of 
them,  but  the  women-compositors  —  they  know  there 
is  no  promotion  for  them,  and  they  do  their  work  will 
ingly  and  quietly,  and  mind  their  own  affairs." 

"And  whom  does  the  chief  editor  envy?"  asked 
the  mother. 

"  Nobody  can  guess  what  flights  his  ambition  may 
take,"  replied  Brunette,  "if  he  ever  finds  time  to  fly 
it  at  all.  Perhaps  he  completes  the  circle,  and  wishes 
he  were  the  errand-boy,  with  no  responsibility,  and 
sure  pay  every  Saturday  night.  Perhaps  he  would 
like  to  be  the  mayor  and  aldermen,  and  decide  how  to 
spend  the  money  that  other  people  have  earned,  and 


ENVY  AND   AMBITION.  349 

sit  in  a  barouche  and  look  handsome,  in  the  Fourth  of 
July  parades ;  perhaps  he  dreams  how  nice  it  would 
be  to  be  city  marshal,  and  ride  a  high-stepping  horse, 
that  always  goes  sideways  in  all  the  processions —  " 

"What  makes  'em  do  that?"  asked  Bob,  looking 
up  from  his  water-colors.  "Last  time  there  was  a 
parade,  I  saw  one  of  those  great  horses  prance  back 
ward,  all  the  way  from  City  Hall  to  the  First  Parish 
church,  in  spite  of  all  his  rider  could  do.  O,  how  red 
he  was  in  the  face  !  " 

"  Which,  the  horse  or  his  rider  ?  "  asked  his  sister, 
who  did  not  like  to  be  interrupted,  looking  sharply  at 
him.  "  Perhaps,  I  was  going  to  say,  the  chief  editor 
would  like  to  be  a  small  boy,  with  blue  eyes  and  fair 
hair,  relieved  by  a  stripe  of  Venetian  red  across  his 
forehead,  and  a  patch  of  chrome  green  on  his  left 
cheek,  with  all  his  things  bought  for  him,  and  all  his 
work  done,  and  nothing  to  do  himself  but  smudge  his 
clothes  with  paint,  and  waste  his  sister's  drawing- 
paper." 

u  Well,  any  way,"  began  Bob,  proceeding  sheepishly 
to  gather  up  his  pencils,  and  accidentally  knocking  his 
box  of  paints  off  the  table,  and  scattering  its  contents 
on  the  carpet,  "  any  way  —  " 

"There,  Bob,"  said  his  sister,  "you  Ve  struck  your 
colors,  and  now  you  'd  better  go  below,  and  relieve 
your  obscured  complexion  at  the  wash-bowl." 

"Any  way,"  persisted  Bob,  with  only  his  head  visi 
ble  at  the  closing  door,  "  the  horse  was  red  in  the 
face,  too,  because  he  was  a  red-all-over  horse,  so 
there  now ! n 


XXXII. 

A    PLUMBERS'    RECEPTION. 

"  MOTHER,"  said  Brunette,  as  the  family  sat  down 
to  supper  one  evening,  "  you  look  dreadfully  tired. 
lias  anything  happened  to  you  since  I  went  away  this 


morning?" 


Bob  had  been  out  playing  ever  since  he  came  home 
from  school,  and  had  hardly  seen  his  mother.  But 
now  he  looked  up  and  remarked,  "  Why,  you  look  as 
though  you  had  been  crying." 

"Crying?  no  indeed.  On  the  contrary,!  have  been 
holding  a  reception." 

"  A  reception  ?  "  repeated  Brunette,  in  amazement. 
"  Why  was  n't  I  invited  ?  " 

"  Because  you  're  not  a  plumber.  It  was  a  plumb 
ers'  reception." 

"  O,  I  see;  you  've  been  calling  in  medical  aid  for 
that  gasping  and  wheezing  pump  in  the  kitchen,"  said 
Brunette,  brightening.  "  Well,  I  'm  glad  of  that. 
But  how  did  it  tire  you  out  so  ?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  the  day's  history  just  as  accurately  as 
I  can,"  said  the  mother,  "  and  not  exaggerate  a  single 
statement,  though  it  is  quite  possible  that  I  may  leave 
out  something,  among  so  many  details.  You  know 
that  with  two  pumps  in  the  house,  I  had  for  weeks 
350 


A  PLUMBERS'   RECEPTION.  351 

been  obliged  to  pump  ten  minutes,  pouring  water 
down  at  intervals,  every  time  I  wanted  a  dipper-full 
of  water." 

'.'We  ought  to  move  into  a  house  where  there  's 
Sebago  water,"  suggested  Bob. 

"Well,  human  patience  gave  out,  at  last,  and  last 
week  I  had  a  conference  with  a  plumber,  who  prom 
ised  to  be  on  hand  '  bright  and  early  Monday  morn 
ing.'  The  heater  in  the  dining-room  needed  over 
hauling,  and  it  was  agreed  that  the  plumber  should  do 
both  jobs. 

" '  Now,'  said  I,  as  impressively  as  I  could,  '  I  don't 
want  you  to  say  you  '11  come  unless  you  are  sure, 
because  I  don't  want  to  take  up  my  carpets  until  you 
can  do  the  work.'  Yes,  he  was  sure. 

"  So,  as  you  know,  I  was  up  before  day,  yesterday, 
got  the  curtains  down,  had  the  carpet  taken  up,  and 
waited,  and  waited,  and  kept  waiting ;  no  sign  of  a 
man.  Noon  and  night  came,  but  he  did  n't;  one  day 
lost." 

"I  never  in  my  life,"  said  Brunette,  "knew  a  case 
in  which  a  plumber,  or  a  glazier,  or  a  painter,  or  a 
locksmith,  or  a  gardener,  or  a  stove-man,  kept  an 
appointment." 

"  Or  a  paper-hanger,  or  a  white-washer,  or  a  carpet-, 
beater,  or  a  man  to  carry  away  the  ashes  —  " 

"  Or  anybody  else,"  said  Bob,  "  and  when  I  get  to 
be  a  man,  I  'in  going  to  learn  all  those  trades,  and 
make  it  a  rule  to  keep  every  appointment  I  make ; 
and  you  see  if  I  don't  get  everybody's  custom." 


352  THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

"You'll  have  your  hands  full,  and  be  a  general 
favorite,"  said  the  mother.  « Well,  this  morning, 
about  nine  o'clock,  my  plumber  came,  three  of  him. 
Two  large  men  and  a  large  boy.  The  boy,  I  suppose, 
was  what  they  call  a  '  helper,'  but  he  was  a  great  hin 
drance  to  me.  The  large  boy  and  the  larger  man 
calied  the  smaller  man  '  boss.'  The  boss  sat  down  on 
the  floor  before  the  heater,  and  asked  me  if  the  young 
lady  that  he  saw  passing  his  place  every  day,  was  my 
daughter.  Then  I  said  it  was  quite  possible,  and 
asked  him  if  there  was  any  very  serious  trouble  with 
the  heater.  Then  he  looked  into  the  ash-pan,  and 
asked  me  if  the  young  lady  and  the  little  boy  were 
my  only  children.  I  admitted  that  they  were,  and 
inquired  how  long  it  would  take  to  regulate  the 
heater.  Then  he  remarked  that  it  was  n't  common  to 
see  two  children  in  the  same  family  with  so  much  dif 
ference  between  their  ages,  and  was  going  on  to  ask 
me  if  I  was  step-mother  to  the  elder  one,  when  I 
remarked  that  it  was  a  fine  day,  and  I  hoped  the  job 
could  be  finished  so  that  I  could  go  down  town  in  the 
afternoon.  Then  he  opened  the  heater  door  and 
remarked  that  I  seemed  to  have  '  a  great  many  nice 
i  flowers  about.'  Then  he  drew  out  a  damper  and 
observed  that  he  had  two  children  who  were  fond 
of  flowers,  and  one  of  them  was  extremely  smart  at 
school,  and  he  had  six  children  in  all,  and  was  very 
fond  of  'em.  That  mollified  me  a  little,  and  I 
remarked  that  it  was  happier  for  children  to  have 
brothers  and  sisters  than  to  be  brought  up  alone. 


A  PLUMBERS'  RECEPTION.  353 

Then  he  said  he  did  n't  know ;  among  so  many,  Avar 
was  declared  rather  too  often. 

"  Then  I  left  him  and  went  to  the  kitchen,  where  the 
other  man  wanted  a  screw-driver,  and  a  pail  of  water 
and  a  piece  of  sand-paper,  and  a  hammer  if  I  had 
one.  Then  the  first  man  called  me  back  perempto 
rily,  and  said  he  must  have  a  shovel,  and  a  coal-hod? 
and  some  newspapers,  and  kindling-wood,  and  a  brush 
and  dust-pan.  Then  the  large  boy  called  me  into  the 
kitchen,  and  wanted  a  hatchet  and  some  old  news 
papers,  and  a  dipper,  and  a  jackknife  to  whittle  some 
thing  for  the  boss. 

"  Then  the  second  man  discovered  that  he  had  no 
valves  of  the  right  size  for  a  small  pump,  and  wanted 
a  piece  of  leather  to  make  one.  ThSn  I  told  him  I 
did  not  keep  sole-leather  in  stock,  and  he  said  he 
should  have  to  charge  me  for  his  time  if  he  went  down 
town  to  get  leather.  Then  I  happened  to  remember 
that  I  bought  an  extra  valve  the  last  time  the  pump 
was  repaired,  and  after  some  search  I  found  it,  and  he 
fitted  it  in  the  pump. 

"  Then  the  first  man  wanted  a  saw  and  the  stove- 
cleaner  and  a  piece  of  barrel-hoop.  By  this  time  the 
large  boy  wanted  a  little  grease  in  a  cup  for  the  second 
man,  who  also  wanted  a  piece  of  rag  to  clean  a  solder 
ing  iron,  and  a  pail  and  a  match  and  a  nail  or  two  ; 
and  he  said  the  old  valve  was  as  trood  as  ever,  and  so 

O 

he  pocketed  the  new  one  ;  at  any  rate  it  disappeared. 

"  Finally  the  first  man  concluded  that  nothing  ailed 
the  heater  but  ashes  in  the  flue,  and  made  the  large 


354  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

boy  get  down  on  the  whites  of  his  eyes  and  pull 
ashes  all  over  the  room.  Then  the  second  man  went 
down  cellar  to  lengthen  the  waste-pipe,  and  wanted  a 
piece  of  lead  pipe  to  do  it  with.  Then  I  remembered 
about  three  fqet  of  lead  pipe  which  was  left  when  I 
had  the  bath-tub  set,  and  I  got  it  for  him.  Then  he 
said  he  wanted  a  shorter  piece,  and  sent  the  large  boy 
down  town  for  it,  while  he  and  the  boss  sat  around 
and  conversed  on  general  topics  until  the  large  boy 
and  the  small  piece  of  pipe  returned,  —  asking  me  ques 
tions  whenever  I  came  within  reach.  Just  then  the 
landlord  arrived,  and  I  asked  him  if  he  had  come  to 
the  party.  He  said  he  was  fond  of  a  frolic,  and  I  told 
him  he  might  go  in  and  sit  on  the  dining-table  and 
preside  at  the  meeting. 

"  The  men  had  another  job  at  the  next  house,  and  so 
kept  going  and  coming,  and  every  time  they  went  out 
or  in,  they  left  the  gate  open  for  the  dogs  to  come  in 
and  bury  bones  in  the  flower-beds ;  and  I  went  out 
fifteen  times  and  closed  it. 

"  When  the  large  boy  returned,  business  recom 
menced.  The  first  man  told  me  patronizingly,  that  I 
could  clean  up  the  ashes  a  great  deal  better  than  he 
could,  and  after  I  had  done  it,  he  would  replace  the 
bolts  in  the  heater.  After  three  hours  of  this  sort  of 
exercise,  they  picked  up  their  tools  and  left,  and  I 
was  glad  to  see  the  last  of  them,  although  they  carried 
off  the  new  pump-valve,  which  I  shall  have  to  replace 
presently,  and  in  some  way  that  I  can't  understand, 
actually  spirited  away  also  the  three  feet  of  new  lead 


RECEPTION.  355 

pipe  which  they  refused  to  use  down-stairs.  And  such 
a  plight  as  these  rooms  were  in!  The  dining-room 
was  full  of  ashes,  the  kitchen  slopped  and  littered 
from  end  to  end,  and  on  trying  the  kitchen  pump  I 
found  th.it  it  'ran  down'  just  the  same  as  before. 
Never,  while  I  live,  will  I  have  another  plumbers' 
reception.  If  a  plumber  must  come,  I  will  make  it 
convenient  to  go  visiting  that  day." 

'•  I  don't  wonder  you  're  tired,"  said  Brunette,  with 
a  long  breath.  "  See  what  I  escape  by  being  a  '  sala 
ried  servant ' ! " 

"Lucky  they  did  n't  set  the  house  afire,"  said  Bob. 
"  I  heard  Mr.  Brier  say,  the  other  day,  when  his  office 
came  near  burning,  that  a  plumber  always  sets  a  house 
on  fire." 

"No,"  said  the  mother,  "not  when  he  puts  the 
heater  fire  out,  and  keeps  the  kitchen  under  water,  as 
this  one  did." 

"  And  you  're  not  done  with  your  plumber  yet," 
said  Brunette,  reassuringly.  "  I  suppose  he  did  n't 
leave  his  bill?" 

"  I  forgot  to  say,"  replied  the  mother,  "  that  I  asked 
him  to  send  his  bill  straight  back  to  me  as  soon  as  he 
reached  home,  as  I  don't  like  these  little  affairs  to 
wait.  Sure  enough,  the  boy  brought  it  back  —  a 
detailed  account  —  and  do  you  believe  that  the 
plumber  had  actually  charged  me  for  the  new  pump- 
valve,  and  a  number  of  pounds  of  lead  pipe  ?  " 

It  had  been  a  very  tiresome  day  for  all  the  family  ; 


356  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

the  reception  of  the  governor's  address  had  made 
extra  work  at  the  office ;  Bob  had  had  his  afflictions 
at  school  in  the  shape  of  preliminary  examinations ; 
and  the  mother,  as  she  had  said,  was  quite  fatigued  by 
the  day's  experiences.  After  supper  was  over,  Bob 
remarked : 

"  We  are  all  so  tired  to-night  that  I  suppose  we  '11 
have  to  put  off  the  Society  meeting  until  to-morrow 
evening,  and  so  I  'm  going  to  read  you  a  riddle,  and 
then  go  to  bed,  and  leave  you  to  guess  it." 


A   FAMILIAR  ACQUAINTANCE. 

I  speak  without  a  vocal  sound, 

I  fly  without  a  wing; 
I  roam  the  world's  wide  regions  round, 

And  visit  clown  and  king. 
I  'in  welcomed  by  the  good  and  great ; 

I  'm  trodden  in  the  mire; 
I  kindle  high  and  wise  debate, 

Likewise  the  kitchen  fire. 

I  have  more  heads  than  hydras  boast, 

More  points  than  they  have  scales ; 
More  letters  than  the  gray-clad  ghost 

Who  carries  round  the  mails ; 
I  hold  the  eye  of  sage  and  fop, 

Of  joy  and  misery, 
And  often,  in  the  grocer's  shop, 

His  dabs  of  starch  and  tea. 


A  PLUMBERS'  RECEPTION.  357 

I  whisper  all  that  may  be  told, 

To  all  who  will  attend; 
I  point  the  path  to  fame  and  gold 

As  soon  to  foe  as  friend ; 
And  "often  with  remorseless  might 

I  bring  to  beggary 
The  struggling  and  too  sanguine  wight 

"Who  made  and  fostered  me. 

"  If  Brunette  does  n't  guess  that,"  said  Bob,  as  he 
shut  himself  out,  "  it  will  be  because  she  does  n't 
understand  her  business." 


XXXIII. 

COLEUS. 

BRUNETTE  had  a  great  fondness  for  animals ;  she 
had  a  speaking  acquaintance  with  every  dog  and  cat 
which  resided  between  her  home  and  the  office ;  and 
she  could  hardly  refrain  from  patting  the  nose  of  every 
horse  which  stood  waiting  by  the  curb-stone,  as  she 
passed  up  and  down  on  her  daily  walk.  She  was  the 
patron  saint  of  vagabond  cats  and  dogs ;  indeed,  so 
often  did  she  stop  on  her  morning's  walk  down-town, 
to  divide  her  frugal  lunch  with  some  hungry-looking 
quadruped  that  slunk  along  the  sidewalk,  or  skulked 
in  the  shadows  of  the  fences,  that  she  rarely  found 
anything  more  than  half  a  cracker  in  her  basket  at 
noon. 

Bob  declared  that  the  more  miserable  a  cat  was,  the 
better  she  liked  it.  She  admitted  every  feline  tramp 
that  came  into  the  yard  ;  and  so  often  had  she  brought 
home  a  starved  and  perishing  kitten  in  her  handker 
chief,  that  her  mother  dreaded  the  sight  of  a  small 
white  bundle,  and  frankly  said  so.  So  Brunette  varied 
the  matter  by  doing  her  cats  up  in  a  piece  of  news 
paper;  and  when  the  novelty  was  worn  off  this 
method,  she  unblushingly  brought  them  home  in  a 
grocer's  paper  bag.  Some  of  these  pensioners  were  so 
358 


COLEUS.  359 

far  gone,  before  Brunette's  providence  smiled  on  them, 
that  they  died,  despite  her  care ;  some  of  them  were 
of  so  thoroughly  vagabond  blood,  that  they  ran  away 
thanklessly  as  soon  as  they  were  strong  enough,  and 
never  appeared  again. 

The  mother  bore  these  deaths  and  disappearances 
witli  fortitude,  remarking  that  but  for  them,  the  house 
would  be  simply  one  vast  asylum  for  decayed  cats. 
As  it  was,  there  was  never  a  dearth  of  feline  society. 
Bob  generally  claimed  the  privilege  of  naming  these 
pensioners  ;  and  Brunette  never  knew  which  puzzled 
her  most,  the  ingenuity  with  which  he  hunted  up 
botanical  names  for  them,  or  the  facility  with  which 
he  taught  them  to  respond  to  their  high-sounding 
titles. 

At  one  time,  the  household  possessed  four  cats. 
One  of  them,  a  large  old  tortoise-shell,  beautifully 
marked  with  yellow  and  black,  which  had  been 
mature  in  wickedness  long  before  she  came  into 
Bob's  hands,  came  readily  to  the  name  of  Coleus 
Verschaffeltii ;  a  younger  and  more  amiable  specimen 
answered  to  the  call  for  Amaranthus  Tricolor,  (she 
was  black,  white,  and  yellow) ;  a  third,  chiefly  yellow, 
was  known  as  Aureus  Superbus ;  and  a  smaller  spot 
ted  one  was  happy  in  the  name  of  Nemophila  Macti- 
lata.  These  elaborate  names  were  sometimes,  for 
convenience,  shortened  respectively  to  Colic,  Ammie, 
Aurie,  and  Nemmie  ;  and  when  they  were  uttered 
rapidly  in  Bob's  brisk  and  exigent  voice,  the  owners 
would  break  all  barriers,  and  hasten  from  all  distances 
to  respond. 


360  THE  TKIANGTJLAE,   SOCIETY. 

Coleus  was  a  very  unusual  type  of  cat.     She   was 
evidently    very    well    stricken    in    years    when    she 
appeared  at  the  back  door  of  this  unlucky  family,  and 
insisted  on  being  recognized  as  a  member.     Brunette, 
for  once,  declared  that  the  animal  was  too   old  to  be 
adopted ;  that  she  would  as  soon  think  of  adopting  a 
hero  of  the  Revolution,  or  one  of  the  twenty  nice  old 
gentlemen  who    are  each  "  the  oldest  Mason  in   tJie 
United  States."     But  the  cat  smiled  superior  to  all 
the  darts  of  sarcasm,  and  was  presently  the  tyrant  of 
the   establishment.     She   took   a   fancy  to    a   certain 
cushioned  sewing-chair,   which  had   been  the  special 
property  of  the  mother  ;  and  thereafter,  if  the  owner 
accidentally  sat  down  in   it  when  the  cat  was  in  the 
house,  Coleus  would  go  and  stand  squarely  before  her, 
with    eyes  flashing  yellow  displeasure,  and  her  tail 
lashing  violently  to  and  fro,  so  swiftly  and  angrily  that 
Bob  declared  he  could   "actually  hear  the  swish  of 
it."     And  the  mother  would  gather  up  her  spools  and 
scissors,   and   move    meekly   into    another   chair.     If 
Coleus  obtained  the  chair  first,  and  any  one   of  the 
family  paused  before  it,  as  though  meditating  taking  a 
seat,  Coleus  would  raise  her  head  and  growl  like  a  dis 
tant  thunder-storm.     Bob   declared   that   she   was   a 
regular  watch-cat,  and  answered  every  purpose  of  a 
mastiff.     Being  accustomed  to  this  household,  which 
boasted  no  masculinity  but  fair-cheeked  Bob,  the  cat 
soon   looked   upon   all   men  as  natural   enemies,  and 
whenever  a  tramp,  a  grocer's  man,  or  any  individual 
of  the  unpopular  sex,  approached  the  door,  she  would 


COLEUS.  3G1 

advance,  growling,  to  meet  him,  with  her  tail  like  the 
brush  of  a  carpet-sweeper. 

Nor  was  Coleus  over  amiable  to  her  best  friends. 
She  had  occasional  periods -of  ill-temper,  when  nothing 
would  conciliate  her;  when  she  would,  without  the 
least  provocation,  scratch  or  bite  the  kind  hand  that 
was  patting  her  head,  or  smoothing  her  mottled  sides. 
Then  she  would  retreat  under  a  chair,  and  every  time 
her  benefactors  passed  by  her,  would  reach  out  and 
scratch  at  their  garments.  Brunette  declared  that  it 
was  like  walking  though  a  brier  patch,  to  go  by  her 
when  she  was  in  this  frame  of  mind. 

Coleus  also  departed  so  far  from  the  traditions  of  her 
kind,  as  to  refuse  to  recognize  catnip,  while  she  showed 
a   marvellous  taste  for  sweets.      In   vain,   when    she 
seemed  a  little  dumpish  and  under  the  weather,  did 
Bob  "  exhibit  "  fresh  green  leaves  of  the  mystic  herb, 
gathered  from  a  solitary  plant  which  he  kept  growing 
in  the  back  yard,  by  dint  of  building  round  it  a  solid 
palisade  of  broken  curtain-sticks  and  all   the  suitable 
slivers  of  kindling-wood  which  he  could  find.     Coleus 
sniffed  disdainfully  at  the  fragrant  offering,  and  then 
looked    absently  toward  the  Sandwich  Islands.     Bob 
asserted  that  she  was  fond  of  cookies,  and  would  not 
drink  fresh  milk   unless    it  was  sweetened.      Which 
when  Brunette  doubted,  the   mother  came   to  Bob's 
assistance.     «  Any  time,"  said  she,  «  Coleus  will  turn 
from  a  saucer-full  of  the  rich  creamy  fluid  for  which 
the  groceries  and  milk-carts  of  Portland  are  so  justly 

16 


362  THE  TKIANGULAB   SOCIETY. 

celebrated,  to  lap  eagerly  at  a  dissolved  spoonful  of 
the  condensed  lacteal  fluid,  patented  and  put  up  in  tin 
cans  by  Gail  Ham  — I  mean  Gail  Borden." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Brunette  ;  "  even  the  cat  has  sense 
enough  to  prefer  condensed  milk  to  extended.  It 
is  n't  the  sugar  she  cares  for,  it  's  the  milk.  Why,  the 
other  day  when  I  called  on  Mrs.  Naylor,  she  told  me 
that  that  very  morning,  in  the  bottom  of  her  milk- 
measure,  she  found  a  nice  little  mucilaginous  mass  of 
frog's  eggs ! " 

"  Her  milkman's  cows  must  feed  in  a  very  swampy 
pasture,"  replied  the  mother.  "  But  the  cat  really 
does  like  sweets,  because  the  other  evening,  she  jumped 
on  the  table  and  stole  a  generous  lump  of  Bob's 
molasses  candy,  and  carried  it  under  the  stove  and  ate 
it,  to  the  great  embarrassment  and  confusion  of  her 
whiskers,  I  noticed." 

"  Whiskers  and  molasses  candy  dorft  seem  to  be 
made  for  each  other,"  said  Brunette,  musingly.  "  Do 
you  remember  when  I  had  that  candy-pull,  how  that 
sentimental  youth  with  the  light  moustache  —  " 

"Don't  revive  unpleasant  memories,  Brunette. 
What  are  you  scolding  about,  Bob  ?  " 

"  I  was  only  saying,"  said  Bob,  with  an  injured  air, 
"  that  when  the  cat  ate  the  molasses  candy,  she  got 
her  paws  all  stuck  up  with  it,  and  then  she  tried  to1 
run  away  from  'ern,  and  jumped  up  on  the  sofa,  and 
when  Brunette  sat  down  there,  she  just  accused  me 
of  mussing  the  cushion  with  my  candy,  and  when  I 


COLEUS.  363 

told  her  it  was  the  cat,  she  was  vexed,  and  called  both 
of  us  fictitious  names.  A  boy  has  a  hard  time  of  it, 
in  this  family,"  muttered  Bob. 

"  Called  you  fictitious  names  !  "  echoed  the  mother, 
"  what  did  she  call  you  ?  " 

"  She  said  I  was  a  humbug,  and  the  cat  was  a  scape 
goat,"  said  Bob,  his  bosom  swelling  with  the  remem 
brance  of  his  wrongs.  "I  Ve  been  called  a  humbug 
too  many  times  not  to  know  what  that  means,"  he 
went  on,  gloomily,  "  but  I  'd  like  to  know  what  like 
ness  there  is  between  a  cat  and  a  goat." 

A  few  mornings  after,  Brunette  had  reason,  she 
admitted,  to  change  her  mind  with  regard  to  the  cat's 
liking  for  sweet  things.  While  Brunette  was  engaged 
in  setting  the  table  for  breakfast,  she  discovered  a 
couple  of  diminutive  rodents  in  the  milk-pitcher, 
drowned  as  dead  as  the  traditional  door-nail.  Pres. 
ently  she  summoned  her  mother  and  Bob  to  witness 
her  change  of  opinion. 

"  I  said  I  did  n't  believe  Coleus  cared  for  sweets," 
said  she,  «  but  I  take  it  all  back.  There  she  is,  before 
breakfast,  actually  partaking,  with  evident  relish,  of 
some  mice-cream ! " 


XXXIV. 

A   GOOD    FRIEND. 

OF  course,  when  Toby  ceased  to  be  a  vagabond, 
came  into  the  fold  of  respectability,  and  was  duly 
accredited  with  a  master,  a  local  habitation,  and  a 
name,  it  was  necessary  that  he  be  invested  with  a 
collar  and  a  tax  bill,  and  recognized  as  one  of  the 
Solid  dogs  of  Portland.  Toby  made  no  apparent 
objection  to  the  tax-certificate,  which  Brunette  carefully 
hung  on  the  wall  above  his  bed,  in  the  office  library, 
excepting  to  sniff  at  the  misspelling  of  his  name  in  it, 
and  several  other  little  eccentricities  of  orthography, 
to  which  she  called  his  attention.  "Although  the 
city  of  Portland  may  sanction  the  spelling  of  your 
name  with  an  e  in  the  last  syllable,  it  fortunately  hap 
pens  that  it  has  no  jurisdiction  over  the  orthography 
of  the  Adviser  office,"  she  said,  "  and  do  you  see  to 
it,  Toby,  that  you  never  authorize  such  an  inno 
vation." 

But  Toby  strenuously  objected  to  wearing  a  collar, 
offering  no  violence  when  he  perceived  what  was 
intended,  but  expressing  the  most  decided  repugnance 
to  the  new  decoration.  When  at  last  it  was  locked 
around  his  neck,  and  he  was  taken  out  to  walk,  by  a 
select  party  of  his  friends,  to  exhibit  his  adornment, 
364 


A   GOOD   FRIEND.  3C5 

he  went  in  the  most  sheepish  manner,  as  one  who 
should  say,  "  I  protest  against  this  jingling  thing,  and 
I  wish  it  understood  that  I  consider  it  a  great  draw 
back  to  my  personal  appearance."  He  shook  his  head 
violently  to  dislodge  it;  he  scraped  at  it  furiously 
with  his  hind  leg  ;  he  turned  round  and  round  in  try 
ing  to  reach  it  with  his  mouth ;  and  failing  in  every 
attempt,  he  started  to  run  away  from  it,  and  ran  until 
he  was  quite  blown  and  breathless.  After  trying  this 
a  few  times,  he  had  a  bright  thought ;  he  sat  down 
solidly  on  the  sidewalk,  expressing  in  every  line  of  his 
body  that  he  was  waiting  for  the  collar  to  go  by  with 
the  rest  of  the  party,  and  leave  him. 

Toby  was  an  unusually  amiable  and  tractable  dog. 
He  learned  easily,  and  never  forgot  what  he  once 
learned.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  teach  him,  because  as 
soon  as  he  really  understood  what  he  was  desired  to 
do,  he  did  it,  not  only  with  cheerfulness,  but  with  evi 
dent  delight.  If  he  had  enjoyed  the  benefits  of  a 
liberal  education  in  his  youth,  he  would  doubtless 
have  made  his  mark  upon  his  times.  No  one  knew 
how  old  he  was  when  Brunette  found  him,  a  wretched, 
friendless  outcast,  shivering  in  the  street ;  but  he  then 
appeared  to  have  no  accomplishments  whatever, 
although  he  was  extremely  quick  to  understand  what 
was  said  to  him. 

When  his  master  was  out  of  town,  Brunette  fre 
quently  took  Toby  home  with  her  to  remain  over 
night,  or  over  Sunday,  and  on  these  occasions,  used 
sometimes  to  devote  a  little  time  in  the  evening  to  his 


366  THE  TEIANGULAK   SOCIETY. 

education.  First,  she  taught  him  to  speak  when  he 
wanted  food  or  water.  Taking  a  small  lump  of  sugar 
in  her  fingers,  she  held  it  over  his  head,  saying,  ener 
getically,  "  Speak,  Toby !  speak !  and  you  shall  have 
it !  "  Over  and  over  she  repeated  this  exhortation, 
while  Toby,  utterly  unconscious  of  her  meaning,  sat 
attentively  regarding  the  sugar,  fully  expecting  that 
when  she  had  finished  her  monotonous  remarks,  she 
would  drop  it  into  his  mouth.  Nobody  counted  the 
number  of  times  this  was  done  ;  until  finally,  a  grain 
of  sugar  crumbled  from  the  lump  and  fell  directly 
into  one  of  Toby's  nostrils.  At  once  he  sneezed. 
Brunette  immediately  gave  him  the  lump,  and  praised 
him  without  stint ;  and  when  another  lump  was  held 
up,  he  sneezed  vociferously,  and  obtained  that  also. 
His  feigned  sneezes  were  extremely  funny,  and  cost 
him  very  evident  effort ;  and  after  awhile,  he  either 
barked  accidentally  in  his  endeavors  to  sneeze,  or  con 
cluded  that  it  was  easier  to  bark  than  to  sneeze  ;  and 
never  failed  thereafter  to  "  speak  "  with  a  clear,  sharp 
bark,  whenever  he  desired  food  or  drink.  At  the 
office,  he  would  "  speak  "  to  the  Sebago  faucet,  until  he 
attracted  attention  ;  at  the  house,  he  would  sit  and 
converse  with  the  kitchen  pump  until  some  one  came 
to  his  assistance.  He  had  a  great  fancy  for  sitting 
on  a  chair  like  other  people ;  and  always  in  the  even 
ing,  would  walk  about,  restless  and  dissatisfied,  until 
a  chair  was  placed  for  him  in  the  family  circle,  when 
he  would  immediately  occupy  it,  and  listen  with  evi 
dent  interest  to  the  conversation  of  his  friends. 


A  GOOD   FEIEND.  367 

Whenever  he  was  at  the  house  over  Sunday,  or  at 
any  meal-time,  a  chair  and  plate  were  always  placed 
for  him  at  the  dining-table.  He  sat  up  in  his  chair 
gravely,  when  the  rest  of  the  family  gathered  about 
the  table,  and  ate,  neatly  and  with  perfectly  good 
manners,  whatever  was  placed  upon  his  plate.  He 
never  put  his  knife  in  his  mouth,  or  used  it  to  help 
himself  to  butter.  He  never  talked  with  his  mouth 
full.  He  never  found  fault  with  the  preparation  or 
temperature  of  the  various  dishes,  or  made  significant 
remarks  about  his  mother's  style  of  cookery.  Some 
times,  if  his  plate  remained  empty  too  long,  he  would 
speak  up  sharply  to  remind  his  hostess  of  his  pres 
ence  ;  but  he  never  trespassed  on  the  other  plates,  or 
tried  to  obtain  anything  which  was  not  distinctly 
given  him.  His  great  delight  was  a  saucer  of  milk 
for  dessert,  which  he  would  drink  very  tidily,  without 
spilling  a  drop  ;  and  if  at  any  time  he  caught  sight  of 
the  sugar-bowl,  he  would  "  speak "  for  a  spoonful  of 
sugar,  which  he  devoured  with  evident  relish.  He 
learned,  also,  to  shake  hands  with  propriety,  and  fre 
quently  surprised  acquaintances  who  stooped  to  pat 
his  head,  by  cordially  offering  them  his  paw. 

It  often  happened,  after  these  little  visits  home  with 
Brunette,  that  when  he  went  with  her  to  the  office  in 
the  morning,  he  found,  to  his  surprise,  his  master 
already  established  at  his  desk.  After  a  time,  he 
seemed  to  reason  from  this  fact,  that  his  master  prob 
ably  arrived  home  by  a  midnight  train,  and  that  lie, 
Toby,  ought  to  have  been  there  to  meet  and  welcome 


368  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

him.     So  thereafter,  Toby  refused  to  go  home   with 
Brunette  during  his  master's  absences,  but  would  excuse 
himself  amiably,  and  insist  on  remaining  in  the  count 
ing-room  ;  or,  if  Brunette  succeeded  in  coaxing  him  a 
little  way,  he  would  return  and  take  up  his  position  on 
the   office   door-step.      He    was   strengthened   in  this 
habit  by  the  fact  that  his  master  did  sometimes  come 
on  a  midnight  train,  and  so  reward  his  loving  faith. 
Often,   during  these  watches,   Toby   would  join  the 
Federal  street  policeman  in  a  friendly  way,  and  accom 
pany  him  on  his  lonely  beat   in   a    sort    of   sociable 
silence  which  was  pleasanter  to  both  than  utter  soli 
tude.     Especially  would  he  do  this  when  the  midnight 
train  failed  to  bring  him  his  beloved  friend ;  and  the 
poor  faithful  doggie,   his  long  vigil    ail  in  vain,  was 
found    shivering    and   crest-fallen    on    the    door-step 
when   the    early   boy   came  to   start   the   fire  in  the 
engine-room. 

Toby  soon  learned  that  a  certain  leather  satchel 
always  accompanied  his  master's  journeys ;  whenever 
that  satchel  appeared,  Toby  knew  that  he  was  to  be 
left  alone  ;  his  head  and  tail  drooped,  and  he  went  into 
silent  and  sorrowful  retirement.  One  day  his  master 
returned  from  a  journey  when  Toby  was  out,  and, 
hearing  the  dog  coming  up  stairs,  concealed  himself 
behind  a  book-case.  Toby,  unsuspecting,  came  into 
the  room  and  prepared  for  a  nap  ;  but  happening  to 
catch  sight  of  the  satchel  on  the  table,  he  sprang  upon 
his  hind  feet,  snuffed  at  it,  barked  joyfully,  and  pres 
ently  discovered  the  arrival. 


A   GOOD   FRIEND.  369 

Although  Toby  was  not  above  the  average  size  of 
his  breed,  he  appeared  to  imagine  that  he  weighed  a 
ton.  In  the  first  months  of  his  adoption,  he  would 
tremble  with  apprehension  if  he  were  placed  on  a 
table,  evidently  fearing  that  it  would  break  down 
under  him.  And  he  steadfastly  refused,  for  a  long 
time,  to  trust  himself  on  the  railed  bridge  which  led 
from  the  counting-room  across  the  basement  press 
room  to  the  rear  door  of  the  office,  and  which  was 
amply  able  to  sustain  the  weight  of  a  rhinoceros. 
But  if  this  exaggerated  notion  of  his  own  ponderosity 
made  him  thus  "  afraid  of  that  which  is  high,"  it 
appeared  to  augment  his  courage  in  other  directions, 
for  no  dog,  even  were  he  as  large  as  a  calf,  was  too 
large  for  Toby  to  tackle,  if  he  caught  it  intruding 
within  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  office.  Toby  spe 
cially  detested  large  black  dogs ;  their  size  and  their 
color  seemed  to  offend  him,  and  he  would  hurl  himself 
against  a  black  dog  four  times  his  size,  with  impetu 
osity  and  fearlessness  enougli  for  an  elephant.  He 
objected,  also,  to  a  rapidly-moving  carriage,  or  to  a 
horse  urged  to  his  best  speed  ;  and  never  failed  to 
rush  out  and  bark  at  any  passing  vehicle  or  equestrian 
that  exceeded  his  notions  of  proper  dignity  of  move 
ment.  All  the  entreaty,  instruction,  discipline  and 
threatening  in  the  world,  could  never  cure  Toby  of 
this  bad  habit,  which  was  deplored  by  all  his  friends, 
both  because  it  was  annoying  to  passers-by,  and 
because  it  was  feared  that  some  justly-offended  trav 
eller  might  sometime  revenge  himself  on  poor  Toby, 


370  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

whose  moral  character  was  otherwise  excellent,  these 
two  antipathies  being  his  only  failings. 

Instead  of  being  overrated,  as  pets  are  apt  to  be, 
there  is  reason  to  think  that  Toby  knew  a  good  deal 
more  than  he  had  credit  for.  His  exhibitions  of  sense 
and  sagacity  sometimes  astonished  even  his  most  appre 
ciative  friends.  One  morning  when  Brunette,  by  reason 
of  guests  or  errands,  was  somewhat  belated,  and  did 
not  reach  the  office  at  the  usual  time,  a  lady  who  had 
sometimes  called  on  her  at  her  home,  and  had  there  a 
speaking  acquaintance  with  Toby,  although  she  did 
not  suppose  he  would  recognize  her  anywhere  else, 
came  to  the  office  with  some  message  for  Brunette. 
She  had  never  been  there  previously,  and  was  puzzling 
between  the  two  street-doors,  one  of  which  led  to  the 
counting-room,  and  the  other  up  stairs  to  the  editorial 
rooms.  Toby,  who  had  come  to  the  door  to  meet 
Brunette,  as  was  his  custom,  at  once  recognized  the 
visitor,  and  apparently  knew  whom  she  was  seeking, 
and  understood  her  dilemma.  lie  led  her  to  the  stair 
way  door,  and  as  she  opened  it,  he  ran  up  stairs,  paus 
ing  and  looking  back  to  induce  her  to  follow.  She  did 
so,  and  he  piloted  her  through  the  composing-room 
and  the  large  editorial  room  to  the  library  where  were 
Brunette's  desk  and  chair,  and,  by  a  lively  pantomime, 
indicated  to  her  that  she  should  sit  down  and  wait.  He 
made  his  meaning  so  plain  that  she  understood  him 
perfectly,  and  seated  herself  at  his  invitation  to  wait 
for  Brunette,  who  presently  arrived,  "just  as  Toby  said 
she  would,"  declared  the  admiring  visitor ;  while  he, 


A   GOOD   FRIEND.  371 

wagging  his  tail  and  smiling  at  the  success  of  his  plan, 
left  the  two  to  their  conversation,  and  went  down  to 
attend  to  his  duties  in  the  counting-room. 

It  was  quite  evident  that  Toby,  up  to  the  time  of 
his  adoption  into  the  Adviser  office,  had  never  seen  a 
street-car ;  and  his  first  introduction  to  one  was 
extremely  funny.  He  was  accompanying  his  master 
one  day  on  a  long  tramp  up-town,  when  that  gentle 
man  chanced  to  fall  once  more  into  the  oft-repeated 
error  of  fancying  that  to  ride  on  the  horse-railway 
might  save  time.  So  he  hailed  a  car,  which  Toby  did 
not  seem  to  notice,  until  just  as  his  master  was  step 
ping  in,  when  he  prepared  to  follow,  but  was  peremp 
torily  shut  out.  This  did  not  much  surprise  Toby,  as 
he  took  the  car  for  a  house,  where  he  supposed  his 
master  was  making  a  call ;  and  under  such  circum 
stances,  Toby  had  been  frequently  requested  to 
remain  outside,  on  the  steps,  on  account  of  the  unrea 
sonable  prejudices  of  persons  who  objected  to  four- 
toed  tracks  on  the  hall  carpet,  and  ginger-colored 
dog's-hairs  on  the  parlor  hearth-rug.  Remembering 
these  things,  Toby  sat  himself  resignedly  down  on  the 
steps  of  this  small  house  also,  to  wait  until  his  master 
should  come  out.  He  was  considerably  astonished 
when  he  was  kicked  off  by  a  loud-voiced  and  unpleas 
ant  young  man  who  was  busy  with  a  couple  of  feeble- 
looking  horses  in  the  front  yard ;  so  busy,  indeed, 
that  he  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  two  women, 
who  were  hurrying  and  shaking  their  umbrellas 
toward  him  from  a  side  street,  in  the  hope  of  attract 
ing  his  notice. 


372  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

But  while  Toby  stood  looking  anxiously  up  at  the 
window,  against  which  he  could  see  the  back  of  his 
beloved  master's  head,  he  was  thunder-struck  to  see 
the  house  suddenly  moving  along  up  the  street.  Toby 
could  not  believe  his  eyes ;  the  house,  with  his  friend 
in  it,  was  actually  moving  away  from  him  !  Toby  felt 
weak  in  his  knees.  He  sat  down,  despite  the  mud 
and  the  multitude,  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  and 
watched  the  receding  edifice.  He  did  not  attempt  to 
follow  it ;  he  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  following 
a  whirlwind  or  an  earthquake.  Roused  at  last  from 
his  trance  of  painful  amazement  by  a  four-horse  team 
which  threatened  to  trample  him  into  sausage-meat, 
poor  Toby  pulled  himself  together,  and  went  slowly 
and  dejectedly  back  to  the  office,  thinking,  probably, 
that  his  master  had  been  translated,  if  not  by  means 
of  "  a  chariot  of  fire  and  horses  of  fire,"  at  least  by  as 
near  an  approach  to  them  as  Portland  and  the  nine 
teenth  century  could  furnish,  and  in  a  manner  quite 
as  inexplicable  to  him.  He  gave  up  his  customary 
business-like  interest  and  oversight,  and  betook  him 
self  to  the  darkest  corner  of  the  library,  where,  in 
company  with  a  dusty  pair  of  rubbers,  the  Indian 
clubs  with  which  his  master  was  wont  to  keep  his 
muscle  on  a  war  footing,  and  an  old  umbrella  retired 
on  half-pay,  he  lay  with  his  mouth  in  the  dust,  reject 
ing  all  consolation,  and  utterly  refusing  to  explain 
himself.  Great  was  his  amazement,  and  exuberant 
his  joy,  when  his  master  returned.  Toby  evidently 
regarded  him  as  a  returner  from  another  world,  whom 
he  had  never  expected  to  behold  again. 


A   GOOD   FRIEND.  373 

It  took  several  trials  to  teach  Toby  the  ins  and  outs 
of  the  street-cars ;  but  presently  he  understood  the 
matter,  and  would  wait  obediently  while  his  master 
embarked,  and  then  trot  along  cheerfully  on  the  side 
walk,  ahead  of  the  laboring  horses,  stopping  at  every 
corner  to  watch  the  dismounting  of  the  passengers, 
and  make  sure  that  the  figure  he  looked  for  was  not 
among  them.  And  he  never  seemed  to  think  it  at  all 
strange  or  unfair,  that  he,  too,  was  not  allowed  to 
ride.  But  once,  on  a  wretchedly  wet  night  in  winter, 
when  Brunette  was  taking  him  home  with  her,  she 
found  the  wind  and  rain  so  severe,  as  she  toiled  up 
Exchange  street,  that  when  she  reached  Congress,  she 
stepped  into  a  car,  quite  forgetting  Toby  for  the 
moment ;  and  after  the  car  started,  she  was  amazed  to 
find  him  comfortably  lying  down  under  the  edge  of 
her  water-proof,  as  though  he  had  been  there  a  month. 
He  was  nearly  concealed  by  her  garments,  and  he  lay 
as  still  as  though  he  were  dead  ;  but  the  one  eye 
which  he  kept  fixed  on  Brunette's  face,  said  plainly, 
"You  know  I  don't  mind  the  running,  but  I  was  get. 
ting  wet  through  ;  and  if  you  will  only  keep  quiet, 
and  say  nothing,  this  little  plan  of  mine  will  work 
admirably,  and  nobody  will  be  harmed  by  it."  Bru 
nette  was  on  thorns  all  the  way,  expecting  that  the 
poor  dog  would  be  roughly  ejected ;  but  no  one 
seemed  to  notice  him,  and  when  the  end  of  the  trip 
was  reached,  he  bounded  out,  barking  joyfully,  as 
though  exulting  at  having  set  at  naught  the  rules  of 
the  railway  company.  But,  queerly  enough,  he  never 
attempted  it  again. 


874  THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 

Toby  knew  perfectly  well  when  Sunday  came,  and 
not  only  slept  later  that  morning,  but  evinced  in  vari 
ous  ways  his  consciousness  that  the  exercises  of  the 
day  were  to  be  quite  different  from  those  of  week 
days.  He  was  generally  treated  to  a  walk  with  his 
master  on  Sundays,  and  in  these  walks  he  delighted  ; 
but  otherwise  the  day  was  rather  a  bore  to  him.  He 
was  a  stirring  business  dog,  and  he  liked  the  move 
ment  and  excitement  of  week-days,  when  there  were 
people  coming  and  going,  and  hurry,  and  bustle,  and 
noise,  and  many  feet  running  up  and  down  stairs.  He 
was  a  favorite  with  the  girl-compositors,  and  was  very 
fond  of  them,  being  especially  attentive  to  those 
who  brought  their  lunch,  instead  of  going  home  at 
noon.  Indeed,  Brunette  noticed  sometimes,  with  pain, 
that  he  was  much  more  fond  of  their  boned  turkey 
and  sugared  doughnuts  than  of  her  simple  refection, 
which  generally  consisted  of  two  crackers  and  an 
apple.  Toby,  like  many  a  being  with  a  less  number  of 
feet,  knew  which  side  his  bread  was  buttered  on. 
But  when  the  temptations  of  lunch-time  were  over,  it 
was  by  Brunette's  chair,  or  at  her  feet,  that  he  lay 
down  for  his  afternoon  nap. 

He  knew  when  the  working  hours  of  the  day  were 
over  for  his  master,  as  well  as  did  that  gentleman  him 
self.  As  soon  as  the  last  edition  went  to  press,  Toby 
understood  that  business  was  finished  for  the  day,  and 
would  thereafter  steadfastly  oppose  all  intrusion  upon 
his  master's  sanctum  ;  even  telegraph  boys,  who  some 
times  arrived  with  belated  dispatches,  were  denied 


A   GOOD   FRIEND.  375 

admittance  by  Toby,  although  he  had  been  on  good 
terms  with  them  all  day.  He  would  not  attempt  to 
bite  or  bully  them,  but  would  rise  on  his  hind  feet, 
put  his  paws  against  them,  and  push  them  away  from 
the  door,  with  a  deprecating  bark,  as  though  saying 
"  I  don't  wish  to  be  disagreeable  —  personally  I  am 
very  fond  of  you — but  you  really  mustn't,  you 
know ! " 

Confinement  to  the  routine  of  a  daily  newspaper 
office  has  often  been  called  a  dog's  life,  but  it  has  also 
been  many  a  dog's  death.  It  is  altogether  probable 
that  if  Toby  had  lived  in  the  country  on  a  farm, 
where  he  would  have  been  obliged  to  go  after  the 
cows  every  night,  to  trot  to  the  nearest  market  town 
every  week,  and  to  scour  the  country  in  pursuit  of 
runaway  horses,  oxen  and  sheep,  whenever  they  might 
succeed  in  escaping  from  the  pasture,  he  might  have 
been  alive  to-day.  But  Toby  was  too  well-fed  to 
thrive  without  an  abundance  of  out-of-door  exercise, 
and  the  latter  is  hard  to  combine  with  a  newspaper 
life.  True,  he  sometimes  accompanied  the  city  editor 
on  a  devious  tramp  in  pursuit  of  the  bounding  news- 
item  ;  he  not  infrequently  assisted  the  collector  in  his 
peripatetic  duties,  or  walked  a  little  way  with  the 
homeward  compositor,  or  went  shopping  with  Bru 
nette,  when  she  wanted  some  small  addition  to  her 
frugal  wardrobe  ;  but  altogether  he  did  not  have  suf 
ficient  exercise  to  keep  him  in  health.  A  sedentary, 
shut-up,  monotonous  vocation  will  kill  even  a  dog. 

And  before  poor  Toby  had  lived  out  half  his  days 


376 


THE  TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY. 


he  fell  a  victim  to  his  devotion  to  business.  He 
seemed  a  little  ill  one  day,  and  although  carefully 
tended  by  his  master,  he  grew  rapidly  worse.  One 
day  he  seemed  desirous  to  go  out  once  more  into  the 
open  air.  He  was  tenderly  carried  out  and  placed  on 
the  sidewalk,  but  he  was  too  weak  to  utter  his  usual 
cheerful  bark  at  the  passing  teams.  He  walked  slowly 
a  few  steps,  and  looked  mournfully  up  and  down  the 
familiar  street,  as  though  conscious  that  it  was  for  the 
last  time.  Then  he  turned  toward  the  door,  but  had 
not  strength  to  mount  the  steps,  and  was  carried  in 
and  laid  down  again  upon  his  bed.  He  wagged  his 
grateful  tail  faintly,  gave  a  long  sigh  of  weariness, 
and  then  with  his  faithful,  patient,  beautiful  eyes  fixed 
lovingly  on  his  master's  face,  he  was  dead. 

It  was  a  bitter  blow  to  Brunette,  who  loved  him  ; 
all  the  more,  perhaps,  that  her  constant  employment 
did  not  give  her  time  to  make  or  cultivate  many 
human  friendships.  Besides,  she  had  often  been  accused 
by  censorious  people,  of  loving  animals  more  than 
persons.  And  surely,  many  a  human  being  has  died 
and  been  buried,  leaving  behind  him  less  real  grief 
and  heart-ache,  and  lonesomeness,  than  followed  the 
death  of  Toby  ;  many  a  one  has  received,  and  deserved, 
less  love  than  he,  and  few  are  held  in  more  tender  and 
grateful  memory. 

Brunette  could  not  feel  that  she  had  done  her  duty 
by  her  dead  friend,  until  she  had  paid  him  the  one 
small  honor  in  her  power,  by  putting  on  record  his 
virtues,  and  her  appreciation  of  them.  And  the  eyes 


A  GOOD   FRIEND.  377 

of  the  little  home  circle  were  not  ashamed  of  their 
tears,  as  she  read  aloud  her  small  and  inadequate 
tribute  to  his  memory. 

TOBY. 

He  was  my  fondest  friend  —  and  he  is  dead  — 
Dead  in  the  vigorous  fullness  of  his  prime, 
Lost  to  my  seeing  for  all  coming  time; 
Now,  ere  oblivion  close  above  his  head, 
Let  me  look  back  across  our  mingled  years, 
And  count  how  he  was  worth  this  heart-ache  and 
these  tears. 

Purer  devotion,  steadier  truth  than  his, 
Not  even  the  most  exacting  heart  could  crave ; 
Demanding  little,  all  he  had,  he  gave, 
Nor  wronged  his  love  by  doubts  and  jealousies, 
But  kept  his  constant  faith  unto  the  end, 
Kind,  loyal,  trusting,  brave,  a  true  ideal  friend. 

Envy  nor  prejudice  he  never  knew, 

Nor  breathed  a  syllable  of  wrath  or  blame, 

Nor  wronged  by  hint  or  sneer  his  neighbor's  fame, 

Nor  uttered  aught  unseemly  or  untrue ; 

In  all  his  life-time  there  was  never  heard 

From  his  unsullied  lips  a  base  or  cruel  word. 

Ho  never  joined  the  venal,  sordid  race 
Of  politicians,  mad  with  selfish  greed; 
He  never  did  a  vile,  uncleanly  deed 

By  man  or  woman;  envied  no  one's  place, 

Nor  wronged  a  mortal  of  a  penny's  worth; 

Should  he  not  rank  among  the  rare  ones  of  the  earth  ? 


378  THE   TKIANGULAK   SOCIETY. 

He  never  sought  the  revels  of  the  gay, 
Nor  strayed  where  fatal  follies  spread  their  snare ; 
He  loved  the  home-light,  and  the  fireside  chair, 
When  daytime's  crowding  cares  were  shut  away, 
And  there,  with  all  he  loved  in  easy  reach, 
He  talked  with  soft  brown  eyes,  more  eloquent  than 
speech. 

Yet  scores  of  wise  men  argue  and  declare 

That  this,  my  friend,  was  but  a  pinch  of  dust; 
That  his  warm  heart  of  constancy  and  trust 

Has  gone  out,  like  a  bubble  in  the  air; 

That  his  true  soul  of  love  and  watchful  care 

Is  quenched,  extinct  and  lost,  and  is  not,  anywhere. 

"  He  had  no  soul,"  they  say.     What  was  his  power 
Of  love,  remembrance,  gratitude  and  faith  ? 
Do  these  not  triumph  over  time  and  death, 

And  far  outlast  our  life-time's  little  hour  ? 

Affection,  changeless  though  long  cycles  roll, 

Integrity  and  trust,  —  do  these  not  make  the  soul  ? 

If  these  high  attributes  in  sinful  men 
Make  up  the  sum  of  immortality, 
Outlive  all  life  and  time,  and  land  and  sea, 
Unfading,  deathless,  —  wherefore  is  it  then, 
They  are  contemned  by  church  and  synagogue, 
When  they  inspire  and  warm  the  bosom  of  a  dog  ? 

If  baser  spirits  last,  can  it  be  true, 
That  his  dissolved  to  nothing  when  he  died  ? 
Wherever  love  lives,  must  not  his  abide  ? 

Where  faith  dwells,  shall  his  faith  not  enter  too  ? 

True  hearts  are  few,  and  heaven  is  not  so  small, 

O  fond  and  faithful  friend,  but  it  can  hold  them  all! 


A   GOOD   FlttEND.  379 

I  have  lost  many  a  friend,  but  never  one 
So  patient,  steadfast,  and  sincere  as  he, 
So  unf orgetf ul  in  his  constancy ; 

Ah,  when  at  last  my  long  day's  work  is  done, 

Shall  I  not  find  him  waiting  as  of  yore, 

Eager,  expectant,  glad,  to  meet  me  at  the  door  ? 


A   PERIOD. 

YEAES  ago,  a  little  Portland  boy,  on  being  shown  a 
painting  of  a  twilight  landscape,  gazed  on  it  awhile  in 
silence,  apparently  estimating  critically  the  foreground, 
middle  distance,  light  and  shade  and  their  effect  on 
local  color,  background,  truth  to  nature,  perspective, 
and  the  disposition  of  values,  —  and  then  suddenly 
withdrawing  his  thumb  from  his  mouth  and  placi  ig  it 
on  a  clear  space  of  sky,  he  exclaimed,  "  There  's  a  first- 
rate  place  for  a  moon  !  "  If  that  little  boy  did  not  die 
young  —  and  comparatively  few  persons  die  young  in 
Portland  —  he  is  now  a  bearded  man,  busy  with  money- 
making  or  politics  —  perhaps  a  happy  combination  of 
both ;  or  if  he  did,  he  is  a  chubby,  smooth-cheeked 
angel,  with  little  or  nothing  to  do.  In  either  case,  the 
recorder  of  these  fragmentary  sketches  wishes  heart 
ily  that  he  were  at  hand  to  point  out  a  "  first-rate 
place  "  for  a  period.  The  fond  pen  cannot  find  heart 
to  exterminate  the  members  of  the  inoffensive  and 
industrious  family  from  whose  simple  daily  experi 
ences  it  has  drawn  these  bap-hazard  pages.  Besides,  a 
mortality  so  sudden  and  unusual  would  cast  a  sus 
picion  of  improbability  over  the  whole  record,  since 
families  are  never  swept  away  in  that  wholesale  man 
ner,  in  the  healthful  and  salubrious  vicinity  of  Casco 
Bay.  It  cannot  marry  them  all  happily  off,  after 
380 


THE   TRIANGULAR   SOCIETY.  381 

the  style  of  novels,  as  they  are  too  old  or  too  young, 
too  foolish  or  too  wise  to  be  disposed  of  in  that  man 
ner.  There  seems  no  alternative  but  to  leave  them  as 
it  found  them,  busy,  content,  self-respecting  and  inde 
pendent  in  their  quiet  and  unostentatious  way,  minding 
their  own  affairs,  and  doing  their  best  to  keep  their 
small  bit  of  this  world  bright  and  comfortable  and 
clean  and  happy,  which,  after  all,  is  more  than  many 
of  us  do,  and  as  much  as  the  best  need  hope  to 
accomplish. 


